


Little Earthquakes

by nosuchanimal



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Angst, Consensual Underage Sex, F/F, Lexa is just confused and super gay, Light D/s Dynamics, Mentions of Linctavia, Smut, and Bottom Lexa, and a little Ranya, some Top Clarke, they're both horny teenagers don't even blame
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-26
Updated: 2018-04-20
Packaged: 2019-03-24 04:39:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 9
Words: 82,316
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13803579
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nosuchanimal/pseuds/nosuchanimal
Summary: Lexa’s no stranger to the mystical powers of pretty girls. She has accepted and moved on from the fact that they make her feel things beyond the scope of her normally stunted emotional range. But this – whatever she feels for Clarke – has ballooned into something huge and visceral and uncontrollable, and Lexa hates feeling out of control.She’s honestly not even sure when it started. For Christ’s sake, they’ve been going to the same high school for three years. It seems to Lexa like whatever this shit is could’ve started years earlier, when she at least had the excuse of being newly hormonal.___The High School AU where Lexa finds herself in the improbable and unenviable position of having absolutely no clue and no cool. Clarke isn't helping.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> First Clexa story here! This was actually originally intended to be a one or two-shot but now, 82,000 words later, it's expanded into something huger than Lexa's infatuation. I'd love to hear from you guys. Let me know what you think.

She wants her. Not an unfamiliar sensation in itself, but the intensity of it is a little unnerving. 

Lexa’s no stranger to the mystical powers of pretty girls. She has accepted and moved on from the fact that they make her feel things beyond the scope of her normally stunted emotional range. But this – whatever she feels for Clarke – has ballooned into something huge and visceral and uncontrollable, and Lexa _hates_ feeling out of control. 

She sees her at the beginning of their senior year at what feels like an abnormally high frequency. If she wasn’t a staunch atheist, she might suspect the hand of a divine and ironic providence, reaching down and tweaking with space-time _just_ to fuck with her. 

Lexa walks down the hallways and notices her, leaning insouciantly against the lockers with her friends, releasing these full-bellied, uninhibited laughs that make Lexa smile every time she hears them. She’s a few minutes late to class and she catches Clarke half-jogging to make it into hers before the bell, chest heaving miraculously. She’s in her seat in English and watches Clarke two rows ahead, tendrils of blonde hair falling in front of her eyes as she leans over her desk, curled over her notebook. 

She’s honestly not even sure when it started. For Christ’s sake, they’ve been going to the same high school for three years. It seems to Lexa like whatever this shit is could’ve started years earlier, when she at least had the excuse of being newly hormonal. 

But now, _now_ for some ludicrous reason, she does this involuntary sweep of every room she enters, seeking out that flash of blonde hair and blue eyes. And every time she gets that accompanying swoop in her stomach, she feels a contemptuous sort of incredulity, like – what the _fuck_ is wrong with her. 

If she absolutely had to point to the moment of conception, Lexa thinks it might have begun at the end of junior year. One Tuesday, about a month before summer starts, she turns the corner after her Ancient History class in time to catch Lincoln hitting the wall of lockers with a shudder. 

“Keep it in your pants around my sister, you fucking lowlife!” Bellamy is roaring, trying to shove past the two boys attempting to restrain him. 

She sees Lincoln, a normally sweet and laconic man, push himself off the lockers and move towards Bellamy, clear intent in the lock of his jaw. Lexa moves to intervene because this will _not_ end pretty. Lincoln, who despite his typically laidback demeanor is also quite capable of demolishing this small child one-handed and blindfolded, can’t afford the school’s attention from that. 

Lexa plants herself between them, pushing against Lincoln’s solid chest hard enough that he stumbles. 

“Linc,” she says sharply, catching his eyes. “Not even worth it.” 

He shifts his attention to the whiny adolescent again, coldly furious. 

“Come on,” she snaps. “Walk away.” 

One palm still on Lincoln’s chest, she turns her head to see Clarke step into the fray as well, putting a hand on Bellamy’s bicep. His gaze slides to her reluctantly. 

“Bell, drop it,” she hears her say under her breath, almost snarling. “You being a possessive dick isn’t going to solve anything.” 

He stops struggling as much, but still points at Lincoln, eyes blazing. “Don’t think you’re even remotely good enough for her, asshole,” Bellamy sneers, because _of course_ he needs a parting shot.   

And then the whole motherfucking pretentious, elitist Peralta Hills posse is there, some of them shooting Lexa and Lincoln accusatory looks. Octavia and Finn and Wells and Jasper and all those other self-righteous assholes. She walks Lincoln away, straight-arming him backwards when he doesn’t move first. 

They’re turning around, about twenty feet away from Bellamy’s unerring stare, when Clarke half-runs up to them. 

“I’m sorry,” she says a little breathlessly, shaking her head. “I’m sorry he’s such –” 

“An arrogant little shit?” 

Clarke arches an eyebrow. “Yeah.” She frowns. “He shouldn’t have said that.” 

“Nothing we haven’t heard before,” Lexa says tonelessly. 

Clarke looks uncomfortable. “He’s just protective of Octavia,” she says, eyes shifting to Lincoln, who is still stiff and clenching his fists. 

Lexa’s not interested in her defensiveness or bullshit justifications. While she kind of appreciates the conciliatory gesture Clarke made, she thinks it was more for assuaging Clarke’s guilt than a genuine desire to apologize. Lexa keeps her face impassive and turns on her heel without another word. 

And, yet, walking with a hand curled pre-emptively around Lincoln’s arm, the most prominent thought in her mind, apart from how much she hates every single rich, entitled asshat in this school, is how _gorgeous_ Clarke looked, snarling and determined. 

Lexa’s not generally the type to shame herself for a healthy libido, and she doesn’t see the harm in letting in her imagination run a little. That’s the first night she slides a hand between her legs with thoughts of pushing Clarke up against those same lockers, swallowing her gasps. 

*** 

She notices her more after that. She supposes that coming to images of a girl she barely knows has the unfortunate effect of putting her on Lexa’s radar. Not that she feels especially guilty. Clarke is both attractive and unattainable, and that makes her excellent fantasy material. But the _noticing_ – it’s a little more than just aesthetic appreciation. 

And, yeah, it’s staring at the soft curves of her hips and swell of her chest, and the stretch of legs Lexa sees when Clarke wears cut-offs or skirts. There’s a day when Clarke wears this light, gauzy top and her hair up and Lexa has a view of the top of her back, the sharpness of her shoulder blades and smooth plane of her neck. The image of her full, naked back, Clarke spread out on her stomach on Lexa’s bed, doesn’t leave her for days. But it’s more than that.  

It’s seeing that Clarke laughs easily and unselfconsciously, that she’s warm and affectionate with her friends, especially Octavia and Raven (and fuck if Lexa doesn’t quietly rejoice at the fact that Clarke doesn’t show the same handsiness with her guy friends), that she speaks up in the few classes they share together with a kind of really attractive confidence. 

It’s noticing that Clarke doesn’t look at Lexa and her friends with the same barely-concealed, derisive belligerence displayed by some of the wealthier crowd at Arcadia High (fucking Bellamy). Or that she gets this expression sometimes like she’s miles away and that it’s usually accompanied by strange hand motions. 

Lexa gets an idea of what that last one is about two weeks before summer starts. Sixth-period has just let out and students are streaming out of the halls like liquid through a funnel, a cacophony of shouts and laughter and doors slamming following them. 

Lexa hangs back after Anya and Lincoln leave, because silence and isolation are refreshing before she has to go to her job, or look after Aden, or make sure no one in her neighborhood group has done something monumentally stupid. So she’s slow in putting her school supplies back into her locker, and slow in ambling down the hall. 

She passes the door to the art studio in a tired haze before stopping and realizing what she saw. She doubles back and peers into the transparent upper half of the door, seeing Clarke with her back to her. The other girl is standing with her arms crossed in front and her head tilted, examining a canvas. Lexa can’t see what’s on the canvas but she can see that Clarke’s changed into baggy, paint-spattered jeans and a shirt, her hair twisted into a messy bun on the top of her head. 

Lexa glances up and down the hall nervously, grateful that no one’s here to witness her voyeurism, before returning her gaze. Clarke moves to the side, to a collection of paints and brushes on a table, and Lexa swallows a gasp. Because the painting that’s revealed is breathtaking. 

There’s the profile of a girl, chin tilted up, on the right side of the canvas, an expression of soft wonder and uncertainty on a realistic face and upper torso. The space around her, though, is an abstract kaleidoscope of colors and shapes and motion. It looks as if the girl is at the center of a maelstrom, surrounded but still untouched by bold strokes and frenetic movement. 

Lexa stares at it and almost forgets where she is. The emotion and skill of the piece are tangible. She wants to go up to it, to see the ridges and consistency of the paint strokes, to run her fingers over it. She wants to see the details of her face and eyes. She’s not sure if she thinks this girl’s separation from the chaos around her is a more positive kind of invulnerability, or if it’s more a reflection of her isolation, but she wants to stare at it until she figures it out. 

She doesn’t know how long she stands there, looking like a fucking moron, before she realizes that Clarke is watching her through the door from the paint table, arms loosely crossed with a curious, soft smile. Lexa flushes so hard she suspects she’s just imploded from the force of her own mortification. 

She tries to mirror Clarke’s nonchalant smile and fails miserably, going by how tight her jaw feels. She nods once in an attempt at a casual goodbye before striding off towards the exit, almost running when she gets more than few steps beyond. She turns the corner, presses her back against the wall and hears the studio door open behind her, tentative footsteps as Clarke moves into the hallway. 

“Lexa?” she hears Clarke say, hesitantly. 

Lexa’s chest twists violently at her own name, coming out of Clarke’s mouth. It sounds at once both jarringly unfamiliar and like she’s said it a million times before. She stays, pressed against the wall, breaths coming fast and short, until she hears the studio door close again. 

The next time she catches Clarke with that distant look on her face in class, she recognizes her hand movements as imaginary paint strokes. She doesn’t know why her inability to get the image of Clarke’s painting out of her head bothers her more than the image of Clarke’s naked back. 

***

The last day of junior year, all the students are giddy and half-manic, impatient for three months of sun-drenched freedom. Lexa, who managed to get a part-time position at the warehouse of an auto supply place near her house in addition to the comic store job she’s held since last year, knows her own summer is going to hold a preciously small amount of actual freedom. 

Aden, at their mom’s urging, is also going to be working, going the time-tested route of camp counselor. He grumbles half-heartedly, but they both know any extra cash helps. 

Lexa is sitting with him on the low brick wall in front of the school at the end of the day, waiting for their bus and swinging her feet, tilting her head up to enjoy the southern California sunshine. 

“Hey,” she hears someone say, and opens her eyes to see Clarke half-smiling at her. 

Lexa’s stomach jolts. “Hi,” she says, as quickly and emotionlessly as she can. Beside her, Aden takes one of his earbuds out and looks at Clarke, whose gaze slides to him. 

“Is this your brother?” she asks. 

Aden holds out a hand, grinning at her. Really, he’s one of the sweetest, most earnest people Lexa has ever met, and she’s consistently envious of how easily he navigates social situations. Right now she’s just thankful to have him as a buffer. 

“Aden,” he says, shaking her hand. “Lexa’s my big sis, yeah.” 

“I’m Clarke,” she responds, letting go of his hand with a warm smile. Her eyes shift between them. “You guys don’t really look alike.” 

Aden shrugs, unbothered. “Different dads.” He throws an arm around Lexa’s shoulders, who narrows her eyes at him. “Brothers from another mother.” 

“That makes literally no sense, Ade,” Lexa says flatly. 

Clarke laughs easily and Lexa loves it. “Well, just wanted to say I hope you guys have a good summer.” 

“Thanks,” Lexa says, chest blooming with unwelcome warmth. She hopes it doesn’t show on her face or in her voice. “You, too.” 

Clarke waves at them as she’s walking away and Lexa peels her eyes away the sway of her ass. 

“She’s pretty,” Aden says wistfully. 

“Shut up.” 

Lexa rides home on the bus, Aden drumming on his knees next to her, reflecting on that interaction more than she feels comfortable admitting, considering it lasted at most thirty seconds. But she can’t help thinking – Clarke sought her out. To say something nice, even after the cringe-worthy gawking incident. And seeing as she didn’t come across as a creep or idiot, Lexa labels it a complete success. 

*** 

What with juggling her two jobs, watching Aden shoot up a foot and grow thin, uneven patches of stubble around his jaw (which makes him grin every time he rubs a hand across it), and dealing with her mom’s frenetic work schedule, she doesn’t spare Clarke more than a few thoughts during the summer months. At night, when her mind is meandering lazily and she’s already half-asleep, she’ll sometimes see her painting, vivid and colorful. 

When she walks into the low brick building of Arcadia High that first day back, inhaling the familiar but unwelcome combination of cheap, mass-made cleaning supplies, body spray of over-enthusiastic boys, and that curious sterile hospital-like scent that underlies everything, and passes Clarke in the hallway before her first class, she almost feels like she’s been punched in the stomach. 

Because the other girl has cut her hair a little, thick strands of blonde coming to just above her shoulders, framing a face that seems to have aged and sharpened over the summer. She’s wearing jeans that make her ass look fucking _delicious_ and a ribbed long-sleeve, v-neck that frames her tits wonderfully, and Lexa hates her and hates herself in equal amounts with how much she curls with want.  

Lexa finds out they share a few classes together. First-period Pre-Calculus, fifth-period Chemistry, and English, their last class of the day. She slumps in the seat in their sixth-period English class, twirling her pen and alternating between glances at the clock, moving interminably towards 3pm, and Clarke in the second row. She feels safe in watching her (if not a little disgusted with herself), as the angle is enough that Clarke can’t see her without wrenching her head around. 

She watches the other girl shift in her seat, feet tapping out an impatient staccato against the floor. She’s hunching over her desk, and from the smooth, sweeping motions of her hand, Lexa can see she’s not taking notes. She can barely catch a glimpse of the sketch in her notebook (she thinks it’s their teacher, Mr. Koffman, as he paces in front of the room, talking animatedly about Aldous Huxley), but is actually unsettled at how badly she wants to see it. 

Anya leans against her locker as she’s shutting her books away at the end of the day. 

“You got a shift today?” she asks. 

Lexa nods. 

Anya tilts her head. “Maybe I’ll come by and keep you company.” She smiles mirthlessly. “Not like I’ve got other shit to do.” 

Lexa rolls her bike out of her bedroom after the school bus drops her off and rides 20 minutes to a side street, right outside of downtown Anaheim, where she works at a small, dilapidated but charming comic store. She’s there from 4-8 Mondays, Tuesdays, and Thursdays, supplementing her mom’s salary managing the meat department at Albertson’s with some extra cash. It’s usually not too busy at that time, and she spends most of it doing homework under the counter or perusing the newest _Saga_ or _Mrs. Marvel_. She supposes it’s a good exchange for $11.00 an hour (thank you California minimum wage). 

Anya saunters in around 5 and spends the next few hours scrunched up at the only table they have, reading her biology textbook and sniggering over their customers. She’s not a huge fan of the overtly nerdy crowd, but she’s especially contemptuous of the hipsters with fedoras and thick glasses and suspenders, trying to find the most obscure graphic novel and wax poetic about it. 

It’s not entirely Lexa’s scene, but she knows and cares enough about comics to be an adequate employee. She’s lucky to have landed a job that pays decently and gets her out of the depressing stagnancy of her neighborhood. Although she still has to occasionally deal with the same entitled, upper-stratosphere-class shits that infest her school. 

Anya drives her home in her rusted-out Toyota, bike jutting halfway out of the trunk, and pulls up to the curb in front of her house, peering at the light on in the window to the left of the door. 

“Aden enjoying puberty?” she asks with a half-smile. 

“I’ll let you know when he gets tired of wearing sleeveless shirts to show off his tiny biceps.” 

“Well, I don’t envy the inevitable awkwardness of you walking in on him beating off to free porn one day.” 

Lexa scrunches up her face in utter disgust. “Jesus, Anya.” She shoves open the car door to escape the conversation and Anya’s laughter follows into her house. 

She cooks a quick dinner of spaghetti and makes a salad with enough spinach to make her feel good about its nutritional content, and she and Aden sit and eat. She makes sure Aden finishes his homework before they watch _LOST_ on Netflix (they’re making their way through the show, and Lexa feels confident in saying it’s balls-to-the-wall _crazy_ ), and then nudges him towards his room around 10:00. She hears her mom get home from work at 11:30, when she’s lying in her bed. 

When she hears the noises in the kitchen subside, she pictures Clarke again, and tries to pretend she wasn’t thinking of her throughout her job and dinner. She wonders what that place just behind her ear smells like, what noises she could wring out of her biting at the juncture between neck and shoulder. She thinks about what Clarke’s fingers would feel sliding up the inside of her thigh, slipping into her. She grazes the waistband of her own panties, pushes two fingers into herself, and comes at the thought of gripping Clarke’s hair as the other girl kneels in front of her, looking up at her with hungry eyes and parted lips. 

*** 

She throws a half-hearted punch at Lincoln, which he bats away and continues circling her, a little smile on his face. She knows she has the same answering grin on her face. Her heart is thrumming fast with adrenaline and satisfaction, and she rolls on the balls of her feet, shifting to the right and feinting before jabbing at his stomach. 

He takes the glancing blow and grimaces before dancing away. Old smells of sweat and leather and metal permeate the ring, and there’s the comforting sound of padded fists hitting the bags several feet away. Lincoln’s dad owns the gym in their neighborhood, and their casual sparring became a constant in freshman year. 

They met each other over an attempted mugging. Lexa knows the people who mean trouble in their neighborhood, and not that they live in a _completely_ unsafe area, but every now and then it spits out some truly heinous specimens of humanity. 

She knew the guys who targeted Lincoln were most likely Quint’s, an amoral neanderthal of a human being who pushed meth and fashioned himself the unofficial authority in Southwest Anaheim. Which didn’t phase Lexa as long as he didn’t come knocking on her door, and she and hers stayed out of the occasional turf wars between him and Derrick, a rival dealer. 

Lincoln can handle himself, ordinarily, but there were three of them and the mugging was just an excuse for violence from boys who liked to express themselves through cruelty, really, and they didn’t scatter from the alleyway near Lexa’s house until she swung her baseball bat into one of their kidneys. Satisfyingly, she might add. 

“You okay?” she had asked, and Lincoln had nodded, wincing and holding his side. 

And, damn if she isn’t the gayest person this side of Route 5, but Lincoln is fucking _pretty_. She had patched him up at her house, Aden wandering in with wide eyes at some point (and developing a kind of hero worship for him later on), and they had talked about fighting and Quint and friends in common. 

They both agreed – even with the potential for meetings with sketchy figures, they felt fiercely protective of their neighborhood and the people in it. They understood that it couldn’t solely be defined by its worst aspects, and that its best parts – the families, the tiny public park that just kept surviving, the way you could go down a street on any given Saturday and find kids laughing and playing basketball or street hockey, the loyalty and solidarity among neighbors – redeemed it wholeheartedly. 

Lexa kept the baseball bat leaning against her bedroom wall after that, and Lincoln limped back to his house with bruised ribs, a split lip, and Lexa’s respect. 

She likes that they don’t need words, that they know, unquestioningly, they have each other’s backs. 

She’s always liked the rush of physically pitting herself against someone else. It’s gotten her in trouble in the past, either from exuberant self-defense or going out and looking for it. The most obvious example was when she was 14 and tracked down an 8th grader who had been harassing Aden. She found him walking home alone from school one day, punched him in the stomach, and then leaned in and whispered a threat so effective he didn’t even look Aden in the eye for the next four months. 

She can break with enough pressure, she knows, but she’s gotten better at clamping down on her anger when it spills into her chest like a tide of heat. She still knows the few people she would do anything for, violence included, but it’s a distant option instead of the first thing she reaches for. Nothing wrong with being prepared, though. 

The physicality of it helps … other things, too. The exhaustion after it, muscles pleasantly wrung out, a thin sheen of sweat covering her entire body, brain operating at a muted hum, makes it easier to avoid thoughts of the other girl. Maybe not quite the release she’s looking for, but any catharsis is welcome. 

It’s three weeks into her senior year, and every day is a reminder of how much she resembles a 14 year-old boy with a perpetual hard-on. It’s not even – Clarke’s not even her _type_. She’s blonde and rich and Lexa doesn’t think she’s stupid or shallow but _who knows_ (although every time Lexa sees Clarke’s painting in her mind, “shallow” is not a descriptor she would use). 

She’s had a bare handful of direct interactions with her over the past few years and none of that explains why she’s suddenly become a permanent fixture in her nightly (daily) fantasies. Lexa _does_ know the people Clarke surrounds herself with, though, and they’re shit. 

Well, okay, not all of them. 

Octavia’s not terrible. Just before summer began, two weeks after the locker-shoving incident, she had frog-marched her brother up to them with an expression utterly devoid of sympathy. After a few pregnant moments of silence, Bellamy cleared his throat, looked at the ground and said, “Sorry.” 

Lexa’s eyebrows reached her hairline and she exchanged a nonplussed look with Lincoln next to her. 

Octavia jostled her brother. “I’m sorry,” he said again, actually looking up this time to meet Lincoln’s eyes. “I – I shouldn’t’ve shoved you or called you that.” 

Lincoln nodded. “Uh, yeah, it’s okay.” 

And that had been the end of that terrifyingly awkward situation. Bellamy marched stiffly away and Octavia dropped a soft, careless kiss onto Lincoln’s mouth and Lexa was forced to revise her estimation of them. Not Bellamy, actually – he’s still a cock. But Octavia is clearly not the superficial, oblivious girl Lexa had assumed her to be. Getting Bellamy to swallow his stupid ego and apologize like that must have taken some serious willpower. She supposes she should’ve known, though – Lincoln doesn’t give his affections away easily. 

And Wells is okay, too. He’s a soft-spoken guy, not raucous or possessed of that particular teenage boy urge to take up as much of the space-time continuum as possible. When he talks in the few classes they share, he’s thoughtful and intelligent. Lexa has a habit of watching peoples’ body language (she supposes it comes from a place where careful observation is often the best defense) and Wells’ movements are deliberate and gentle. 

And, yeah, okay, Raven’s not a douche. She’s whip-smart and dry and sarcastic and somewhat resembles Anya in her refusal to bow to things like tact and courtesy. But, to be fair, Raven kind of flits between social circles without a thought for the carefully constructed hierarchy, so she doesn’t really belong with that group anyway. But Lexa knows she’s close with Clarke. 

Finn and Jasper and Monty and those other two or three girls she doesn’t know, though – she doesn’t like them. _Finn_ especially. He’s just full of this carefree entitlement, like he _owns_ this shit. Like he deserves whatever advantages he gets. Lexa watches him too, and there’s something in his movements that hints at a simmering resentment under the surface. She thinks he could get real ugly, real fast. 

When she sees Finn casually drape an arm over Clarke’s shoulder the first week they’re back, and Clarke just gives him a sweet smile, Lexa feels like she’s been punched in the gut all over again. She has to dig her fingernails into the palm of her hand because she wants to simultaneously kick Finn in the nuts and slap herself for whatever this ridiculous feeling is. 

Which, of course, brings up an entirely separate problem. Because even if Lexa didn’t despise herself for the irrational urges Clarke seems to induce, it’s painfully obvious that the other girl is so. Stupidly. Straight. And Lexa doesn’t go after that shit. Not like she’s some epic player, but the handful of girls she’s been with after Costia (no, don’t think about her) were pretty fucking clear about what they wanted. She appreciates that, because why pine after something unattainable? 

Except she is. She’s pining. She’s legit and unavoidably pining and she doesn’t have time for this _shit_ and she’s so frustrated with herself sometimes it leaves a heavy, undigested brick in her stomach. 

Which leads her to increasing her sparring sessions with Lincoln and taking her irritation out on punching bags and inanimate objects. She wants to collapse into bed tonight with a mind blissfully unencumbered by unrealistic fantasies.   

“What crawled up your ass and died?” 

Lexa’s distracted just enough by Anya’s casually delivered line that Lincoln manages to land a solid tag on her jaw, and she reels. 

“Shit!” he says, moving forward in concern. She waves him off, rubbing her face. “Sorry, Lex, I thought you were gonna dodge that.” 

Lexa shoots a glare at Anya, leaning over the ropes around the ring with a searching expression on her face. 

“What does that mean?” 

“It means you’ve been at the gym, wailing on Linc here like he owes you money, like 18 times in the past two weeks.” Anya narrows her eyes. “What’s going on with you?” 

Lexa recoils a little. “Nothing.” 

“Hmm,” Anya replies. “Very convincing.” 

“Fuck off.” 

Lexa nods at Lincoln (who’s rubbing the back of his head sheepishly) and ducks through the ropes, hopping the last foot onto the ground and unwrapping her hands. 

“You don’t have to tell me,” Anya says, falling into step with her. “I’ll figure it out. I know you too well.” 

This is not an encouraging prospect. But it’s also very true. She’s known Anya since she was eight. They’re in the same grade, but Anya’s almost a year older, and she lords that fact over Lexa like she’s a small, ignorant child. 

After an incident on the playground, during which Lexa was cornered by a group of larger boys and Anya came in swinging like a fucking homicidal tornado, they’ve stuck together. After that, Anya began teaching her how to fight, less with patient instruction and more with well-delivered slaps as they danced around each other. 

Of course, Anya’s technique was scrappiness, improvisation, and how to not break your wrist when you punch someone. Lexa’s learned a bit more about the technical aspects of boxing and MMA from Gustus, Lincoln’s dad and the owner of the gym, since then. 

But that resourcefulness and untrained aggression has helped both of them, on multiple occasions. They’re careful most of the time to not go walking alone in their area, especially at night, after a few close calls with Quint or Derrick’s crew. Between Lexa, Anya, Lincoln, Luna, Tris, Nyko and Artigas – they make sure to travel in groups of two or more. 

Anya’s her most loyal, honest (if brutally at times) friend, though. Most nights now, she sleeps over at Lexa or Lincoln’s house, avoiding a home with a frequently inebriated mom and a never-ending string of sketchy boyfriends. 

She follows Lexa into the locker room. “But it’d be easier on you if you just spilled.” 

Lexa grabs a towel and peels her sweaty shirt off, wiping down her face and torso. She pulls on a hoodie over her sports bra, slings her backpack over her shoulder and walks towards the gym exit, Anya trailing after her. 

“You do this sometimes, you know. You might think it’s subtle, but it’s not.” 

“This coming from the queen of subtlety.” 

Anya shrugs. “We all have our strengths.” 

Lexa ignores her. 

“Yeah, sure, fine,” Anya says, shaking her head and smirking. “Keep all that bottled inside.” 

They pick up Thai food on the way home and wolf it down with Aden, who then convinces them to play a round of _Call of Duty_. Anya, of course, destroys both of them, stretching contentedly afterwards and lamenting the burden of her own natural, god-given talents. 

Lexa’s mom come homes soon after, drops a distracted kiss onto all of their foreheads (Anya included, because she’s essentially adopted) and then heads into her bedroom, looking exhausted. Anya takes her usual place on the couch in the living room, curling up with her phone. 

Lexa refuses to shove a hand down her pants when she’s lying in bed that night. She’s going to take control of this, she decides. 

She drifts off into an uneasy sleep and dreams of running in place, legs flailing like she’s in water, unable to find purchase. She feels warm hands on her back and shoulders, grounding her and making her eyes close with relief. There’s a body behind her and it presses her into a wall, hips pushing into her ass. It’s both comforting and arousing, and she hears Clarke say, “I’m going to make you feel better,” before the other girl dips a hand into her from behind and fingers her slowly. 

Lexa wakes up with a start and covers her face with a hand, exasperated and turned on. She finds herself soaked and swallows a gasp, and it only takes a few quick strokes before she’s coming so hard there’s a rushing sound in her ears and she feels dizzy. 

*** 

“So, let’s talk about the role of literature here. Why do you think Bradbury values books so much in a society like this?” 

Mr. Koffman is unrelentingly enthusiastic. He’s one of those people whose age is hard to pin down. He has salt and pepper hair, a round, boyish face, and glasses perched on the end of his nose that he regularly has to adjust. Lexa likes him. 

“Well, it’s a pretty censored culture, right,” Wells says from the front row. “Books are unregulated information. You can’t control them.” 

“Yes, good,” he says, pointing at Wells. “Books offer an alternative for a society based on mindless gratification. And that’s dangerous for the governing body. What else?” 

No one else answers for a moment. Lexa, barely paying attention and eager for her last class of the day to end, impatiently taps her pen against her desk. 

“What about you, Clarke?” Mr. Koffman asks hopefully, eyes wandering around the room and falling on her. “What do you think?” 

Clarke’s head snaps up from being huddled over her notebook (Lexa catches a glimpse of her drawing, what looks like a woman standing in front of a looming, twisting tower) and she stutters a little. “Uh, well, literature – like good literature, is good because everyone can take something from it. It has universal value.” 

Mr. Koffman nods encouragingly. “Keep going.” 

“It’s why those books keep lasting, even after years and years. I think … uh, I think Bradbury makes a distinction between works that really challenge us and reading that just distracts us.” She becomes more confident. “Like, there’s a difference between a comic strip in the newspaper and Tolstoy.” 

“No.” 

Lexa doesn’t even realize she said that out loud until half the class cranes their necks to look at her, Clarke included.  

“Yes, Lexa?” Mr. Koffman says, stretching his head up to peer at her. “You had a response?” 

Lexa swallows and sits up straighter. Not something she had planned to do, but fuck if she’s backing out of this now. “I don’t think there is a distinction. Books, or anything you read, really, can challenge anyone. They have subjective value.” 

Clarke is frowning, twisted around in her seat, staring at her. “You really think you can compare the _Avengers_ comic with Shakespeare?” 

Lexa ignores how her stomach tightens under Clarke’s look. “I don’t think you’re allowed to say that one is inherently better than the other. If someone is intellectually or emotionally challenged by a comic strip, then that has value. Who are you to say that one is better?” 

Clarke shakes her head. “It’s not like a personal statement. I think we all recognize some books have more value than others.” 

Lexa wrinkles her brow. “Yeah, but isn’t that part of what Bradbury is saying? Controlling what we read doesn’t have to be as obvious as censorship. It can be prizing one type of medium over another one, limiting us. Isn’t that what their society is like? Not giving people the chance to read, or experience, something different?” 

“I don’t think our _society_ does that – I think people do. I think people are able to make informed decisions about what they want, and most don’t want the kind of simplistic, juvenile storylines that comics have.” 

Lexa leans forward, feels herself getting annoyed. Oh, it is _on_. “Yeah? How many graphic novels have you read, Clarke? Can you compare whatever you think ‘good literature’ is with that?” 

Clarke flushes. “I’m not saying – that’s not the – I’m saying if we as a people had to choose what to keep, why would we choose something stupid or simple when there’s other more complex, valuable reading material?” 

“You think graphic novels are stupid and simple?” Lexa says incredulously. “I think, if something in there makes me think or feel, then it’s my prerogative to choose that over something else. I’d take Art Spiegelman or – or Brian K. Vaughan any day over, like, Hemingway. Just because _you’ve_ decided to dismiss an entire genre over judgmental bias doesn’t mean other people can’t benefit from it.” 

Clarke opens her mouth, looking furious, but Mr. Koffman cuts her off. He seems positively delighted with the amount of emotion this discussion has induced. 

“Okay, _okay_ , there are so many good conversations going on here,” he says, waving his hands. “There’s the question – is there really a distinction between what we consider ‘high culture’ and ‘low culture’?” He holds up his fingers to put quotation marks around them. “And are there really objective standards we can hold our books to when they, as Lexa put it so succinctly, have such subjective value? Reading is an individual experience and –” 

The bell rings out shrilly. 

“Yes, okay, finish up _Fahrenheit 451_ for class tomorrow!” Mr. Koffman shouts over the immediate shuffling of feet and bags. “I’m planning for a test next week, so prepare, my intrepid readers!” 

Lexa puts everything in her backpack and stands up, hitching it over her shoulder. She meets Clarke’s gaze as she starts to walk out, and sees the other girl’s cheeks still red and her mouth a thin, angry line. Fuck that, she thinks, and ignores the strange thrill in her gut. She’s not apologizing. Clarke was spouting off some ignorant bullshit and Lexa called her on it. She can be angry if she wants. 

It almost seems like Clarke is going to approach her, but then Wells puts a hand on her shoulder and asks her something. Clarke’s face smooths out and she looks up at him before walking out, not sparing Lexa another glance. 

Lexa can pretend she doesn’t feel a tiny bit disappointed. 

*** 

She likes to run when she can, on days she’s not going to the gym with Lincoln. Some mornings, if she wakes up early enough, she throws on shorts and one of her soft, ratty t-shirts, and pulls her hair up into an uncoordinated bun. She stretches on her front lawn, bouncing a little to Chvches or Portugal the Man, or if she wants more of an edge, Nine Inch Nails or Audioslave (Gus plays a lot of 90s grunge and alternative at the gym and Lexa’s become quite partial to a few bands from that era). 

She focuses on her lungs, the rhythm that her feet set, the slow pump of her thighs and arms. She likes to push herself. She likes to see how fast, how far she can go before her muscles start cramping and her lungs scream. She gets back to her house and flops onto the damp grass, chest heaving and a pleasant buzzing in her limbs. 

After days when she feels suffocated, when she can’t imagine a future where she’s not working a shitty job, stuck in one place, when the crush of teenagers in the hallways makes her skin prickle with restlessness, she runs at the school. She studies in the library and waits until the teams finish practicing and clear off the field. Then she walks out, the air flat and soft with dusk approaching, and savors being by herself. She runs the track around the football field and, if she’s feeling especially ambitious, does some push-ups and crunches on the grass. 

She rides her bike back home, keeping her eyes out for figures on corners, and cooks dinner for her and Aden, like she does every night. She loves her little brother more than her own life, but she can’t imagine either of them having a future too different from the present. She loves her mom, too – she knows she’s trying her best. It is what it is, she supposes. And sometimes it’s enough and sometimes it’s not. 

Anya and Nyko and Luna come over one night and they stretch themselves out on the living room floor and drink boxed wine. Lexa doesn’t let herself go too far, mindful of Aden in his room and her mom coming home in a few hours. But the dizzy softness of her limbs feels wonderful. She can breathe right now. Her head swims and they sing along to Taylor Swift (only half-ironically) and she wonders what Clarke would feel like right here, hazy and warm and lying next to her on the carpet. 

*** 

She’s studying European History surreptitiously under the counter one Monday in October when she hears the bell ring above the door to Santa Ana Comics. 

She looks up, preparing to offer her usual, “Hey, how are you doing today? Let me know if I can help you with anything,” when she freezes. 

Clarke is standing there, clutching her backpack, looking a little uncertain. She’s in these tight, low-slung jeans and a pink, sleeveless top that dips _just_ enough for Lexa to force her eyes away. 

“Clarke?” she says, trying not to sound as shocked as she feels. Her heart starts pumping erratically, because having Clarke _here_ , in this unexpected, familiar place, is nerve-wracking. It feels a little surreal, like one of those dreams she’s been having where Clarke shows up in random places. Except, those culminate in things that don’t generally happen in – stop thinking. “What are you doing here?” 

Considering her disdain expressed for comics in no uncertain terms in class last week, Lexa can’t think of a single reason why Clarke is in front of her. 

The other girl looks around the store appraisingly, eyes flitting a little too fast, before walking up to the counter. She furrows her brow and meets Lexa’s gaze and Lexa almost sucks in a breath. It’s like she’s pinning her to the spot because, god, those eyes. They’re a deep, clear blue, expansive and expressive. Lexa is almost never this close to her and the intensity of her direct stare is not helping her heart palpitations.  

“Well, after you called me out in class, I’ve been thinking,” Clarke says, resolve clearly supplanting any residual nerves. She cocks her head. “And I think you were right. I made a sweeping judgment about something I’ve never read.” 

“Oh. Um. Okay.” Dear god, she feels eloquent today. This is not what she was anticipating. 

“So I decided to swallow my pride and seek out your wonderful establishment here,” she says, looking around with a small smile, “and see what exactly you love so much about comics and graphic novels.” She peers at Lexa, who can see, even with the veneer of determination she has, uncertainty behind her expression. “So, how about it? Help me out?” 

Part of Lexa is inwardly (and maybe outwardly) gaping, because she’s genuinely impressed. Clarke absolutely did _not_ have to do this. She could’ve satisfied herself with calling Lexa a belligerent asshole and never thought about their conversation again. But, instead, she questioned her own assumptions and actively sought Lexa out. 

Lexa decides to permanently remove the potential adjectives of “shallow” or “stupid” from Clarke’s growing identity in her mind. 

“You want me to pick out a comic for you?” Lexa asks, just to be totally certain. 

“Yeah, if that’s okay.” 

“Sure, of course,” Lexa says, shaking her head. She stands up, putting her math textbook on a nearby stool and moving out from behind the counter. “What kind of stuff do you usually read?” 

Clarke smiles ruefully. “Not much, honestly. I enjoyed some of the more modern novels we’ve done, like Bradbury and Steinbeck. But, why don’t you just show me some of your favorites?” 

Lexa needs to _pull her shit_ together. Clarke is peering at her with this sweet, expectant look and she still has no real idea why she’s here and she doesn’t get flustered, like ever, so she needs to lock it down and become the professionally detached employee and not blush or act like an idiot. 

But, like, Clarke is asking her a personal question like she cares about the answer and she looks good. So good.  

She tries to keep her face impassive and gestures towards one of the rows. “Yeah, down here.” 

She goes to one of the shelves and picks out a thick graphic novel, black and yellow cover. “You familiar at all with _Watchmen_?” 

Clarke’s eyes narrow in tentative recognition. “That was a movie, right? Lots of superheroes?” 

“Yeah, sort of. It’s a classic.” Lexa hands the book over to Clarke. “Alan Moore wrote it in the late 80s. There are superheroes in it, but what it’s really trying to do is offer a subversive take on the entire idea of a superhero. Like, most of the ‘heroes’ are actually unstable, violent vigilantes, and their actions end up changing key parts of history.” She shoves a hand in her pocket and fiddles nervously with a thread. “It’s sort of based of this idea of, who watches the Watchmen? Who are these people, really, and what does it mean to give them this sort of power?” 

Clarke’s eyebrows raise in surprise as she looks at the cover. “Wow.” 

“Not what you were expecting?” 

“No, it’s just – I think I’ve heard you say more words in the past week than I have in the past three years.” She tilts her head and smirks. “Who knew you were so chatty?” 

What – what is _happening_ right now. Clarke is being _playful_ with her. Lexa clamps down on her own emotions so violently her jaw almost cracks. 

“You don’t really know me, Clarke.” 

Clarke’s smirk drops and something in the moment changes. “No, you’re right. I don’t.” She shrugs. “Maybe that’s part of why I’m here.” 

Before Lexa can think of a response to that, Clarke opens the cover and flips through some of the pages. 

“So why do you like it so much? Tell me what makes this one of your favorites.” 

Lexa swallows. “I guess, there’s this assumption out there. Like, anything having to do with superheroes is childish or trivial or simplistic. And this takes that and turns it on his head. It questions the responsibility of it, the morality, the – putting this huge burden into one person’s hands and expecting them to never fuck up. And it also questions who _wants_ this burden. Like, who has to be borderline sociopath enough to enjoy putting on a mask and beating the shit out of people? It’s dark and cynical and violent, and nothing like what people might assume superhero stories to be.” 

Clarke is looking at her with a curious expression. Lexa keeps talking because hand-selling a graphic novel to a customer is way more comfortable than trying to figure this girl out. 

“It’s problematic in a lot of ways, though. It’s horrendously sexist. There’s this plot arc dealing with an attempted sexual assault and it pisses me off every time I read it. Female characters still have a long way to go with comics, although it’s gotten better over the past few years.” 

Clarke takes a deep breath and gives Lexa a little half-smile. “Damn.” 

“Yeah?” 

“Yeah. That’s some pretty heavy shit right there.” 

“So … you wouldn’t characterize that as, I don’t know, stupid or simple?” 

Clarke grimaces and shifts her backpack on one shoulder. “No. I’m sorry about that.” 

Lexa shakes her head. “No, it’s okay. It’s not just you who thinks that. You coming in here, asking about these, that’s a pretty open-minded thing to do. Especially after I kind of insulted you in front of the whole class. I’m impressed.” 

Clarke’s smile is a slow and magnificent creature. It’s a big, full-wattage grin, and it changes her entire face. There’s an adorable cleft in her chin she hadn’t noticed before and her eyes are glinting like Lexa’s just given her this wonderful gift.   

And this is the moment, right here, when Lexa truly understands the extent of how irrevocably _fucked_ she is. She’s seen Clarke smile before, of course. But this is different. This is _at_ her. This is _because_ of her, and it is absolutely devastating. Because Clarke is beautiful and shining and _happy_ and Lexa feels parts of her melting into gay amorphous blobs and other parts of her tingling and other parts of her wanting nothing more than to see her smile like this every goddamn day. 

She stands there and feels all this, and suddenly she can barely breathe and something is slipping out of her grasp and – it’s too fucking much. She has no control over this. Her entire body tenses like a clenched fist and she turns around so fast she barely sees Clarke’s smile slide off her face. 

She walks back behind the counter and doesn’t understand the sharp frisson of fear or why it feels like her lungs can’t inflate properly. All she knows is she wants Clarke gone, to get as far away as possible from this girl who can twist her entire body up and should _not_ be able to.

Lexa takes a deep, shaky breath without looking behind her and makes an enormous mental effort to push every emotion from her face. 

“Sound good?” she asks, turning back and thankful for the literal and metaphorical barrier of the counter between them. 

Clarke slowly follows her. Her half-smile is weak and Lexa can tell the abrupt shift in the atmosphere is upsetting her.  

“Yeah.” She slides the book onto the counter. “Thanks for educating the ignorant masses.” 

“It’s in the job description.” 

Clarke shifts her backpack so that it rests on her stomach and fumbles for the zipper in the front. “How much do I owe you?” 

Lexa rings it up and avoids Clarke’s eyes. “$21.85.” 

She swipes the card Clarke hands to her and slides it back onto the counter. Clarke picks up the book and carefully maneuvers it into her backpack between textbooks, raising her head. Lexa looks at her after a moment of preparation and keeps everything in her body blank and distant. 

“See you around, Lexa,” she says, trying another tentative smile. 

Lexa almost flinches at her name, because the only other time she heard Clarke say it was the end of junior year, into the empty hallway. She doesn’t think Clarke has ever said it before like this, with soft familiarity. She gives a short nod and ignores the squirm of guilt in her stomach as Clarke’s face falls and she turns towards the exit. 

When she hears the bell ring again as the door closes shut, she rolls her eyes to the ceiling and sucks in a breath. 

 _God._ What _was_ that? What is wrong with her? 

She focuses on school and customers for the remaining few hours and deliberately doesn’t think about things too carefully. 

After she closes the shop up, she texts Aden, telling him she’ll be back later and to heat up a frozen lasagna for himself, and then rides her bike straight to the gym. She’s one of the few people there, so she strips to shorts and a sports bra, wraps her hands up, and hits the bag until her arms are trembling. It rocks with every punch and she taps out a circle around it, focusing on her exhales, the sound of her knuckles striking the leather, keeping her abdomen tight. She hunches over after, hands on her knees, and sees drops of sweat litter the ground at her feet. 

She’s not thinking about this. She’s stopping this. Whatever fucking hold Clarke had on her – it’s gone. Simple as that. 

She doesn’t go to sleep until 4 in the morning, shifting and agitated. Every time Clarke’s grin flashes in her mind she pushes it down.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you guys so much for the awesome positive response the first chapter got! It really made like my entire month. Special shout-out to goodgayegg and RoboBear for betaing.

Anya slaps her tray down onto the table and straddles the bench to the right of Lexa, facing her. 

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” 

Lexa swirls a plastic fork around the questionable mac and cheese on her plate and says nothing. 

“Lex, seriously.” She looks up and meets her gaze. Anya seems remarkably genuine right now. 

“Drop it.” 

“Are you –” 

“Anya,” she snarls. “Drop. It.” 

Around the long, trestle-style table, Tris, Artigas, Nyko, Luna and Lincoln stop talking to look at her and the tension rises palpably. Anya raises one eyebrow and her mouth thins. 

“Sure thing, boss.” She swings a leg over and starts in on her own lunch. She seems completely unconcerned but Lexa can tell she’s hurt. She sighs inwardly. 

This, whatever this is, isn’t Anya’s fault. It’s not Anya’s fault she’s been sleeping like shit, or that she’s pushing herself so hard running or at the gym almost every night her muscles are strained, she’s pretty sure she pulled a hamstring, and she’s exhausted (and still can’t fucking _sleep_ ). She knows she’s been neglecting Aden too, with her evening workout rituals. It’s not Anya’s fault she’s been snapping at her friends over the slightest provocation. 

Lexa shakes her head. “I’m sorry,” she says quietly. “Can we just talk about something else?” 

Anya gives her a glare which, if physically translated, would smack Lexa across the face. She softens slightly at Lexa’s apologetic look. 

“I’m fine, okay? Nothing’s wrong.” 

She can tell no one in a ten-foot radius believes that, but she meets each of their gazes and gestures broadly at their food. “Don’t stop eating because I’m being a bitch.” 

Luna grins at her, sitting to her left. “No worries there. We’d starve if we followed that.” 

Lexa crumples up a napkin and chucks it at her face, and Luna bats it away and laughs. Tris and Artigas, the younger ones of their neighborhood group, exchange an uncertain look that Lexa catches, and she tilts her chin at them. 

“How’s Mrs. Neufeld treating you, Art?” she asks. They’ve all gravitated together over the past few years, finding comfort in similar situations and geography. She feels protective of them, like she does with Aden. He joins them occasionally, but she can see him at another table in the cafeteria today, his strawberry blonde head bobbing as he laughs. It makes the rigid line of her shoulders relax slightly. 

Art starts talking about his US History teacher and Lexa follows vaguely, her eyes drifting of their own volition. They land on Octavia, snaking her way through the crowded room to their own table, and her throat tightens at the two people trailing after her. 

Octavia reaches the other side of their table and drops her tray next to Lincoln, draping her arms around his shoulders, nuzzling him. Art stops talking, eyes lighting up (Lexa’s pretty certain he has a terrible crush on Octavia). 

“Hey, babe,” Lincoln says happily. Lexa doesn’t think she’s ever seen him smile so easily. “Shove over, guys,” he says to Nyko and Tris. “Make room for our esteemed guests.” 

Octavia plops down next to him, trailing her hands over his back and an answering dopey grin on her face. Raven and Clarke follow her, sitting down at the newly vacated bench. Lexa feels a muted panic as they sit across from her, only slightly to the left of her direct line of vision.  

 _Fuck._  

Octavia’s made a habit of eating lunch with them more frequently, since she and Lincoln got together, but she usually goes solo. The first time she did it, in the beginning of the school year, Lexa felt a quiet and reluctant admiration for her. Journeying across the bleak landscape between social circles, especially ones as disparate as theirs, takes some guts. But she made herself comfortable and approachable, and everyone else accepted her. 

Lexa sees Clarke trying to catch her eye as she stares down at her tray, suddenly finding her mac and cheese positively engrossing. 

The comic store was a week ago, and Lexa’s been ignoring Clarke’s existence since then. To mixed results. She can’t help her body’s involuntary reactions, or how her eyes seem to shift magnetically every time the other girl is in the same room, but she can do her very _fucking_ best to pretend they’re not happening. 

It’s not hard to not talk to her, either. They had never done that in the first place, so inertia helped her in that regard. She thought she could feel Clarke’s eyes on her from across a room a few times (for whatever fucking reason), but she never approached her. 

But it’s hard to categorically deny someone’s existence if they’re sitting right across from you. 

Raven sighs dramatically and rubs her eyes. “This class is kicking my ass,” she says to Clarke. 

“Which one?” Anya asks before Clarke can answer. Raven is closer to her, on Clarke’s left side.   

Lexa shoots her a curious glance and Raven looks a little surprised. Lexa doesn’t think Anya’s voluntarily begun a conversation outside their group since they started high school. 

“AP Calc,” Raven responds, recovering. 

Anya does her trademark eyebrow arch. “Ambitious.” 

“No, not particularly.” 

“Except it’s kicking your ass.” 

“Oh, no. Not like that,” Raven says, shaking her head and smirking. “I do most of the equations in my head. But my scrotum sack of a teacher wants me to ‘show my work,’ like he thinks I can’t do it in my goddamn sleep.” She sneers. “It makes everything take like 70 times longer.” 

Anya looks at her appraisingly. Lexa is quietly stunned. 

“So,” Clarke says, addressing Lexa in a low voice as Anya responds. 

Lexa’s eyes snap to hers and she feels both like a cornered animal and like she can breathe for the first time in eight days. Those fucking eyelashes. 

“Ozymandias’ speech at the end?” She raises her eyebrows and smiles they’re sharing a secret. “I literally, physically clutched my chest and gasped. I felt like my melodramatic grandma.” 

Lexa feels herself starting to smile and locks her jaw. “It’s pretty powerful.” 

Clarke scoffs. “Understatement. ‘I _did_ it thirty-five minutes ago.’ Upstages every other super villain out there _and_ totally subverts the entire superhero genre.” She leans closer and her eyes are glittering. “You were absolutely, unequivocally right and I bow to your superior knowledge. Lexa, it was _so_ good.” 

She can’t help it. Even through her stomach twisting with simultaneous urges to run away and smell Clarke’s hair, warm happiness balloons in her chest and she _grins_. Because Clarke looks so excited and happy, and _she_ helped to cause that. 

She’s confused to see Clarke’s smile falter at that, and a curious, unreadable expression crosses the other girl’s face before she ducks her head, the tops of her cheeks dusting slightly with pink. And _what the shit_ does that mean? 

Lexa stands so suddenly she almost knocks her tray over. “I, uh, I have to go finish an essay. At the library,” she says, gesturing over her shoulder. Clarke looks up at her in surprise and disappointment. 

“Yeah, okay.” She attempts a smile, but it still looks odd. “I’ll see you in English?” 

Lexa nods jerkily, grasps her tray and pivots stiffly to walk out of the cafeteria. She feels rather than sees Clarke and Anya’s gazes follow her. She can imagine what Anya’s face looks like, though, and _shit_. Because Anya knows her too well and she’s already been acting irrationally. 

 _Fuck._  

Lexa weakly returns Clarke’s greeting from her seat in their sixth-period English class. She peers at her unobtrusively during Mr. Koffman’s passionate lecture (Joseph Heller this time) and understands exactly _nothing_. She’s been on edge for weeks now because of this girl, because of this, for lack of a better word, _infatuation_. 

She thinks Anya would either slap her across the face or die from laughter-induced asphyxiation if she knew how much Clarke is affecting her. If she knew how irrationally, inexplicably out of control Lexa feels around Clarke. 

She _hates_ that feeling.   

Clarke turns her neck, gaze angling towards Lexa while Mr. Koffman is writing on the dry erase board, and Lexa snaps her head to the front so quickly she gives herself whiplash. She thinks Clarke catches her staring, though, and her stomach roils. 

During her shift at the store, she looks up every time the bell rings, and is both relieved and frustrated when it’s not Clarke. Her attention is disjointed and she knows her employee skills are lacking that evening. When she, Anya, and Aden are eating the peanut stir-fry she makes later, Anya focuses several piercing gazes on her and Lexa sweats under her shirt. The interrogation is only a matter of time, really. 

She tries to hold back that night. She suppresses every thought of Clarke and focuses on her breathing, deep inhales and exhales. 

At 2, wide awake, she pushes a hand into her underwear and almost sobs in relief. She touches her stomach, her breasts, feels Clarke’s hands skating over her ribs and her breath heavy next to her ear. She imagines them wrapped up in each other, Clarke’s warm weight on top of her. Her legs are wrapped around Clarke’s hips as fingers slide through her, pressing against her clit and slipping down to reach inside. Lexa moves her other hand to her mouth, biting on her knuckles as she hears Clarke ask her to come and she does, she does for her. 

She’s asleep almost immediately afterwards and doesn’t move until her alarm clock rings at 7:00. 

*** 

Lexa met Costia when they were both freshmen, starting at a high school that was large and unfamiliar, full of unknown variables and people outside of her comfortable neighborhood population. Lexa’s 14 year-old self was an overcompensating, occasionally belligerent, and generally cocksure little shit, and she honestly has no idea how she managed to snag Costia’s attention those first few weeks. 

She and Anya walked through the halls like they were _daring_ someone to challenge them, like they were eager for a chance to prove how few fucks they actually gave. 

She had just come out last year, to a broad lack of surprise from her friends and family, but hadn’t done anything beyond making out with one of her neighbor’s daughters, sitting on a picnic bench at a playground in the evening, palms sweating. 

And then, suddenly, there was Costia. Deep, warm dark eyes, toffee skin, a mass of curly brown hair, and a grin that was easy and uncomplicated. Lexa’s stomach dropped out the first time Costia smiled at her, and she understood her gayness was huger and more powerful than anything she could reasonably comprehend.   

But, somehow, between Lexa’s awkward attempts at flirting and her insecurities shining through an unconvincing façade of arrogance, Costia decided she was worth something. Somehow, Costia found her endearing, saw the uncertainty and softness under all of that posturing, and gave her affectionate shoves and small, private smiles. 

The first time they kissed, sitting on Lexa’s bed and listening to Aden playing video games through the walls, Lexa’s heart stopped. Just, flopped over and lay gasping, like a beached whale, before expiring. It was tentative and graceless, utterly unsmooth. And when she pulled back Costia’s eyes were shining and she cupped Lexa’s cheek like she was the most beautiful thing she had ever seen, and Lexa was _gone_. 

Everything was hazy and ethereal after that, a whirl of recklessly confessed endearments and touches that grew from fumbling to confident, impromptu make-out sessions in the backseat of cars and the bathroom stalls in school. 

The first time Lexa made her come was a revelation in itself, and she felt like a god. Nothing, not her family’s financial situation, her cynicism about her future and human beings in general, or Lincoln and Anya’s penchant for flicking their wrists and making a whipping sound every time they were around them, could touch her and Costia. 

It was the _feeling_ Lexa remembers most. That sequestered, invincible feeling – like, together, they were insulated from everything and everyone else. She never held back with Costia. She poured everything she had into that girl because there was really no other option. They were, unequivocally, each other’s. 

They had freshman year, three glorious, sex-saturated months of summer, and two months into sophomore year before Costia’s dad abruptly announced they were moving. He was a software engineer and had just been offered a position in Silicon Valley, and there was no question he would accept it. They pulled Costia and her little sister out of their schools, packed up their shit, sold their house, and drove the six hours north in a moving van. 

Lexa and Costia really, truly contemplated running away. Just, taking a car and driving to Wyoming or Arkansas or somewhere they could make a small, unassuming life for themselves. But they had their families and yeah, they were only fifteen and didn’t even have driver’s licenses, so they accepted that plan as unrealistic. 

They held each other desperately for the week they had left, made slow love and fucked fast and urgent, and Lexa tried to imagine a life without this girl in it. When she left, they cried and clutched each other and said it wasn’t really that far away. And Lexa’s heart stopped again. 

It wasn’t really a conscious decision, after that. It wasn’t like Lexa wrote all of her pros and cons on a piece of notebook paper and decided that this _feelings_ shit wasn’t worth it. It was just that, after the leaden pain in her stomach faded, she felt so _weak._ So fucking _fragile_. It was a hollowing out, a precious nugget of self-knowledge – she wasn’t doing this again. She needed to be self-sufficient, not just for her brother and mom, but for herself. 

The detached, take-no-shit, unflappable front Lexa liked to put on somehow turned into a genuine state of being over the next few years. She had sex with a few girls after Costia and it felt like a simple, controlled choice. She was attracted to them and she acted on it, and after, she stopped. 

Except. Except the past few months – she hasn’t felt self-sufficient. She’s felt like she was spilling over, helplessly, _moronically_ uncontrolled. But she’s not 14 and Clarke is _not_ Costia. And the _need_ she feels around Clarke – it wasn’t even like that with her first girlfriend. So, really, logically, this shouldn’t be happening in the first place. 

Good. Right. Solves that. 

*** 

The questions come one morning before school, a few days after Clarke sat with them at lunch. Anya, who received a drunken, shrieking call from her mother at 11 the night before and threw her phone across the room in frustration, is eating cereal when Lexa walks into the kitchen. 

Lexa throws two pieces of bread into the toaster and unscrews the top of the peanut butter, looking for a knife. 

“Octavia’s having a party this weekend,” Anya says nonchalantly, scrolling through her (still fortunately intact) phone. 

“Yeah?” Lexa says, pulling out two plates and two more pieces of bread for Aden.  

“Her mom’s going out of town for some lawyer conference and leaving their spacious mansion in the hands of her two reprobate children. Lincoln just texted me. She invited us.” 

Lexa hums noncommittally, watching the toaster. 

“Clarke will be there.” 

And there it is. Lexa’s entire body stills. “Okay,” she says carefully. 

There’s a beat and then – “Really?” Anya says loudly. “That’s it?” 

Lexa turns to look at her and sees an incredulous, irritated expression on the other girl’s face. “That’s – what now?” 

Anya points a spoon at her accusatorily. “Don’t even fucking _try_ that with me, Lexa. Don’t pull some stupid, innocent shit like you don’t know what I’m talking about.” 

“What _are_ you talking about?” Lexa says, crossing her arms and narrowing her eyes. 

“The fact that you’ve been acting like a meth-head going through withdrawal since senior year started. I know it has to do with Clarke.” 

Lexa leans her hips against the counter and looks impassively at her, giving nothing away. 

“You know I _taught_ you that stare, right?” Anya says, unimpressed. “It doesn’t work on me.” 

Lexa gestures broadly. “Okay, eminently wise mentor. Enlighten me. What’s going on?” 

Anya sets her spoon down and leans back in her chair too, gazing speculatively at Lexa. “Okay, fine. I think you have a crush on this chick and, in typical Lexa fashion, have overreacted so extravagantly you’ve turned something tiny into this enormous, unnecessary clusterfuck.” 

Lexa clenches her jaw and maintains her neutral stare. “I don’t have a crush.” 

“Sure, okay, you just _really_ want to bang her. Semantics.” Anya leans forward. “Why is this such a problem? Why is this bothering you so much?” 

When Lexa doesn’t answer, Anya keeps speaking, “Not that I completely understand where you’re coming from. She’s hot, but like ‘vapid, Abercrombie and Fitch model’ hot. But you can try to bang whoever you want. I just don’t see how acknowledging your libido translates into you twitching like a ferret on speed –” 

“Because I hate it, okay!” Lexa shouts, surprising both of them. “I hate feeling this – this uncontrolled! I don’t want it and I don’t even know her and it’s so fucking _stupid_!” 

Anya is momentarily speechless. Lexa is breathing heavily through her nose after her outburst, hands tight against her sides. Saying it out loud is oddly liberating. She’s been trying so hard to suppress it, ignore it, shove it under distractions and exhaustion. And even though this is one of the last topics of conversation she wants to have _ever_ , she’s glad it’s Anya who’s hearing it. 

There’s a beep from the toaster and Lexa takes a moment to carefully move the two pieces onto a plate for Aden, before replacing them with more bread for her own breakfast. 

“Lex,” Anya says quietly from behind her, “you’ve hooked up with girls before and it wasn’t a big deal.” 

She jerks her head to the side. “This is different,” she spits out, quickly because maybe that will make it less true. She starts spreading peanut butter on the toast like it’s personally offended her. 

Anya’s brow is furrowing as she says, oddly gently for her, “Is this about Costia?” 

At Lexa whipping her head around and her stare turning almost murderous, Anya holds up her hands in surrender, “Hey, hey, just hear me out.” 

When Lexa doesn’t make any other move except to cross her arms again, Anya takes it as a positive and keeps going. “Look, I know that fucked you up. Shit, _I_ even thought you guys were good for each other and I’m a bitter old woman. But, Lex, you’re _seventeen_. You can’t expect that you’re never gonna feel something for another person. That’s way too much pressure to put on yourself.” 

Lexa rubs a hand over her face, already feeling exhausted at 7:15 in the morning. “I just don’t have time for this, Anya. I’ve been trying _so_ hard to … not have this.” She tilts her head to stare at the ceiling so she doesn’t have to see Anya’s face when she mumbles the next bit. “She makes me feel weak.” 

There’s a moment of tense silence, where they both let that confession sit between them. Lexa’s throat moves and she makes a dismissive hand gesture. “And, look, it’s irrelevant anyway. She’s straight and probably dating Finn _,_ ” Anya snorts contemptuously at his name, “so it doesn’t matter even if I _wanted_ to do something about it.” 

The other girl takes another bite of cereal and shakes her head, swallowing before saying, “Okay. One, I don’t know about Clarke’s _alleged_ straightness. She’s giving off some questionable vibes, and I’m not the only one who thinks so.” Lexa’s eyes narrow suspiciously at that but she lets it go. Temporarily. “Two, since whatever _feelings_ you have for her aren’t going away, there’s no harm in trying to hit that. Worst-case scenario – she turns you down and you move on with the first marginally attractive woman who’ll have you.” 

“And best-case scenario?” Lexa asks, starting to put peanut butter on her own toast. She knows Anya is shifting the conversation to a lighter tone and appreciates it. 

“You mean she doesn’t turn you down?” Anya raises her eyebrows suggestively. “Then you two have an earth-shattering night of meaningless sex, you realize you’re cured of whatever inconvenient shit plagued you before, and you move on with the first marginally attractive woman who’ll have you.” 

Trust Anya to take a complex situation and boil it down to “sex or no sex.” Lexa smiles a little despite herself and leans to the side to peer down the hallway to her brother’s room. “Aden!” she calls out. “Anya’s gonna drive us to school soon and you have to eat!” 

She turns back to Anya, taking a bite of her breakfast. “And you think this party is the ideal environment for said scenario.” 

“Please,” Anya scoffs, draining her cereal bowl. “Teenage hormones, a lack of parental supervision, and hard liquor? The only way it could be _more_ ideal is if Tegan and Sara showed up to serenade Clarke on your behalf. But you’re coming with us anyway. I wanna see where those bitches live.” 

She stands up to put her dishes in the sink, putting a careful hand on Lexa’s shoulder. Her voice softens into a tone Lexa knows she uses only with a very select group of people. “Lex, you just – you have to not see this as a huge deal. You can have a crush on her and the world won’t end. Okay?” 

Lexa reflects on their conversation while she’s in her Biology class, tuning out the lecture on cell structure. 

When she thinks about Clarke, there’s still that automatic reaction, for distance, repression, denial. The sensation of being in a situation where things are uncontrolled and uncertain – it brings up a collection of emotions she’s only now looking at closely (with Anya’s prompting). But the most prominent of these is something she feels idiotic for not consciously identifying sooner. 

It’s fear. It’s huge, overwhelming, kidney-shriveling terror. That Clarke, who is still an unknown variable, has the kind of power over Lexa right now that could result in _pain._ Pain that, unlike Costia, she doesn’t even have the right to cause. Lexa almost twists her face up in confusion at that strange thought, because who has to _earn_ the right to cause emotional devastation? But she supposes it makes sense in some way. 

Costia was special – in seeking Lexa out, in treating her like she was something worth protecting and caring for, in the unquestioning way they devoted themselves to each other. And she knows, even now, that Costia would have _never_ hurt her intentionally. Lexa can’t say she knows the same is true for Clarke.  

Lexa, Anya, Lincoln – anyone in their core group, really – they don’t give away their respect or regard easily. When your closest friends are people who would unhesitatingly take a shank in the ribs for you, the priorities of other relationships shift. Friendship, trust – they’re earned. Hard-earned. And, yet, Clarke has single-handedly burrowed herself into Lexa’s mind and gut (and pants, arguably), and Lexa can’t even say _why._ Just that there’s something about her Lexa can’t … shake. 

It scares her. She can recognize that and comprehend the instinctual urge accompanying it now, make more sense of how she reacted. But Anya has a point too. No matter how much she hates it, or how uncomfortable it makes her, she supposes it was a little naïve of her to assume she wouldn’t have feelings for anyone else after Costia. 

She thought it was a conscious decision she could make, that she could indefinitely shove her capacity for emotional connection to the side, to be revisited at a later date. But, it’s here. It’s here and, regardless of its absurdity, it’s not going anywhere. 

And then, of course, there’s the fact that Lexa’s unnecessary psychological clusterfuck (as Anya so eloquently expressed it) is completely _irrelevant_ because Clarke wouldn’t even be open to it. Here she is, freaking the fuck out about the potential consequences of a relationship, when there isn’t even the _possibility_ of a relationship. Because Lexa’s 95% sure that Clarke is totally, unambiguously straight. 

She sits in her Bio class, thinks about the upcoming party, and makes a decision. She’s not going to do anything. She’s not going to pursue it but she’s also not going to suppress it. She’s not going to make a big deal out of the fact that her intestines wrap themselves into a pretzel whenever Clarke looks at her, or that she wants to spend days and days just skimming through Clarke’s sketchbook, or that she’s fucked herself so frequently to thoughts of this girl that they’ve imaginarily gone through most of the lesbian kama sutra. She’s just going to … let it be. 

But – but – what about that other 5%? Shut your stupid face, she tells herself. 

*** 

As it turns out, those bitches live in some swank-as-fuck digs. Unsurprisingly. 

Octavia and Bellamy’s house, in the wealthier, northeast area of Anaheim in Peralta Hills, is a sprawling, multi-story compound, sleek and modern. It’s the type of architecture that combines minimalist lines with dark wood and bamboo, and Lexa would say she likes it if she didn’t hate everything belonging to Bellamy on principle. 

She, Anya and Lincoln sit in the backseat of the Uber, driving through the wide, winding roads, houses gradually growing larger and more ostentatious. Lexa tries and fails not to feel a burning sense of envy. Aden, Lexa and their mom are scraping enough together to support themselves, and these shits have three boats, a staff to fold their napkins into origami swan shapes, and $400/hour lawyers on retainer. Those fuckers. Those undeserving, oblivious fuckers. 

“It’s just them and their mom,” Lincoln says in the backseat, all of them leaning forward to gape as the driver pulls into an empty spot on the grass in front of the house. The driveway and surrounding lawn is already clogged with vehicles, most of them shining and over $60 grand. “She got a pretty settlement in the divorce, the way O explains it.” 

“Sign me the fuck up,” Anya mutters. “New goal for this party: find me a sugar daddy.” She looks at Lexa and smirks. “Sugar mama?” 

Lexa narrows her eyes threateningly while they thank the driver and pile out. Lexa opens the door and steps out, adjusting her vest and trying not to appear self-conscious. There’s no reason, _none_ , for her to feel like she has to prove anything to these people. She owes them nothing. She stands up straight, raises her chin, and channels Uma Thurman in _Kill Bill. Vol. 1_ for now, but she can pull out the second if she needs the big guns. 

Anya came over earlier and tore apart Lexa’s wardrobe, looking for something appropriate for tonight. Lexa could hear her mumbling furiously, something about “too much gay-ass flannel,” as she picked through her closet, tossing shirts and pants carelessly around her room. Lexa does tend towards simplicity in her sartorial choices – jeans, shirts, probably more plaid than is really necessary. 

Anya eventually settled on a light green button-up (“Matches your eyes,” she had said, squinting calculatingly and undoing a few of the top buttons), sleeves rolled up to her elbows, a grey pin-striped vest, and tight black jeans, rolled up and ending a few inches above her ankles. Simple dark grey boots and a loose, dangling necklace completed it. 

Anya was absolutely unwavering on hair and makeup, so Lexa’s hair is curling and free, cascading down her shoulders, and she’s wearing more eyeliner and eyeshadow than she’s strictly comfortable with. But Anya had smirked so victoriously after she stepped back to assess that she hadn’t protested too much. And she admits, she feels good. She feels confident. She feels in control. 

Anya herself is in a black, form-fitting dress, the top narrowing to loop around her neck and a dipping gap where cleavage is peeking out, with strappy black heels. Even though Anya is practically her sister, Lexa can appreciate her purely aesthetic appeal. Lincoln is, as usual, stunning in a simple long-sleeve dress shirt and dark blue jeans. 

They walk up the few steps and can already hear and feel the bass pounding. Lincoln pulls open the door and they’re confronted with an enormous, open space, floor to ceiling windows and a staircase with individual dark wooden slats and metal handrails, leading up to the second floor on the right. 

She can make out a few enormous pieces of art on the walls and, to her left, a dark mahogany table with small, porcelain vases (what she assumes are priceless originals from like the fucking Ming dynasty or some shit). The Blakes seem to appreciate art, or at least the perception that they’re discerning art critics. 

Down a few steps in front of them is presumably the living room, but the table and couches have been shoved to the side and there’s a large, writhing crowd. Music is pumping throughout the house, vibrations thudding through Lexa’s chest. 

They barely get a chance to take it in (Lexa might catch a glimpse of blonde hair in the corner, but it’s not like she’s looking) before a small, violently propelled figure throws themselves on Lincoln, jumping up and wrapping legs around his hips. 

Octavia kisses him, arms snaking around his shoulders. “Hey, baby,” she says, grinning, face flushed and happy. 

“Hey, you,” he says, palming her ass and smiling. 

She kisses him again and then hops down, gesturing excitedly at Lexa and Anya. “Come on, you guys. Cheap liquor and questionable decisions are in the kitchen.” 

They follow her as she grasps Lincoln’s wrist and turns to the left, leading them into a gleaming, white and chrome-surfaced kitchen, the island in the center of it covered in bottles, shot glasses and plastic cups. 

Octavia wiggles her eyebrows. “Shots?” 

“Fuck, yes,” Anya says. 

“What’s your poison?” 

“Tequila,” Lexa answers for them. “You got the necessities?" 

“What the fuck kind of half-ass operation do you think we’re running here?” Octavia scoffs. “We’re a well-oiled machine, Lexa.” 

Lexa is glad her mom typically has Saturdays off and can be with Aden tonight, because she’s looking forward to being decidedly irresponsible. She watches as Octavia pours them all generous portions and cuts up lime wedges. Lexa pours salt on her hand, waits for everyone to follow, and they lick, throw back the alcohol, and suck the slices, faces twisting a little with the bitterness. Lexa feels a warmth spread through her chest at the tequila. 

“Son of a bitch,” Anya says, gasping and slamming her hand on the counter. She gestures at Octavia. “Another, bar wench.” 

“Unnecessary,” Lincoln says reproachfully, hand resting on the small of Octavia’s back. 

“Yeah, play nice, Anya, or the only thing you’ll be drinking tonight is that plastic jug of Schlitz vodka,” Octavia says, pointing. “Sans chaser.” 

Anya shakes her head, smirking. “It’s cute that you think I have standards.” 

Lexa and Lincoln laugh at that and Octavia sets up four more shots. They repeat the process, Lexa grimacing at the unfamiliar taste. It’s been awhile since she’s let herself go like this, act like a normal, stupid teenager. She’ll have the occasional glass of her mom’s wine when she’s at work, or Anya will show up with a fifth of something she’s snatched from her house and Lexa will indulge slightly, but she feels freer tonight than she has in awhile. 

Maybe it’s the catharsis of finally talking about her neuroses, of admitting what’s actually going through her ridiculous head. Or maybe it’s just being surrounded by a bunch of dumbass kids who want nothing more than to get fit-shaced and hump each other. 

Whatever it is, Lexa throws back another shot and stops worrying so much. 

They’re on their fourth round when Raven saunters in, looking (Lexa can acknowledge this more fully with some tequila in her) absolutely stunning in a tight red dress, straps forming a v and dipping low in the front. 

“My main hoes!” she says, grinning. “Lemme get in on this action.” 

Lexa sees Anya’s eyes widen before she carefully schools her expression, and she does a mental fist pump as Octavia pours an extra shot. She feels even more triumphant when she catches Raven’s gaze frequently drift up and down Anya’s form. 

It’s on the fifth round that Octavia suggests body shots, and proceeds to lick a flat line up Lincoln’s neck before sucking the lime wedge from his mouth, promptly discarding the slice and kissing him senseless. Lexa sees Anya eyeing Raven’s collarbones and decides to vacate the kitchen after this turn. She makes herself a weak cocktail with rum and fruit juice in one of the solo cups and takes it out with her, admiring the rest of the house. 

Everything is slightly and pleasantly blurry right now. She’s warm and floaty and unconcerned, and feels unaccountably fond of everyone she passes. Even if she really, normally hates them. She’s not messily inebriated yet, but has found that golden, liminal state of ideal drunkenness. She’s leaning against the wall, watching a few couples in the middle of the living room, when someone joins her. 

“Hey, Lexa,” Wells says, smiling. 

“Wells,” she responds, nodding at him through the syrup of non-sobriety. “How’s it going?” 

“Can’t really complain.” He leans back and takes a sip of his drink. “So, Clarke tells me you work at a comic store.” 

Lexa almost, _almost_ blushes at that, because Clarke talks about her? With other people? She hopes nothing shows on her face when she says, “Yeah. About a year now.” 

“You familiar with Joe Hills’ work?” Wells asks, and keeps talking after Lexa nods in recognition. “I’ve read his novels, but I was blown away by _Locke and Key_. It’s just so dark and creative.” 

Lexa raises her eyebrows, intrigued. “You a fan of the medium?” 

Wells shrugs. “Yeah, I was pretty enamored with _X-Men_ and _Batman_ growing up. It’s amazing how it’s developed, all the different directions it’s gone.” 

Lexa nods in agreement. “No way I could’ve predicted something like _Fun Home_ would have existed for over ten years by now.” She glances at him and starts to explain, but he waves a hand. 

“Hey, I don’t need to be a lesbian to appreciate an Alison Bechdel dramedy,” he says, smile warm. Lexa decides right there that he’s one of the best people in the city. 

He gets an odd, anticipatory look on his face. “Can, uh, can I show you something?” he asks, gesturing behind him. 

Normally, this kind of question from a guy would elicit a reaction comparable to Lexa backing away from a dangerous animal. But seeing as she’s just bestowed the “best dude ever” award to Wells, she gives him the benefit of the doubt and says, curious, “Yeah, sure.” 

He walks her towards the staircase, curling around it and stopping in front of a painting hung on the wall just to its right, beside a closed door. There’s a small light to illuminate it, right on top of it. 

Lexa stops dead. 

“Clarke,” she breathes out, completely unknowingly. She misses the absolutely gleeful smile Wells directs towards her at that. 

It’s a brown-haired girl sitting cross-legged in the middle the woods at night, head bowed, surrounded by a mass of towering trees. Part of the girl’s hair is pulled back, wrapped in intricate braids, and Lexa can’t entirely make out her face because she’s staring at the ground, but there are odd, winged shadows covering her cheeks. Fingerless gloves cover the hands she has resting loosely on her knees, small pieces of metal on her knuckles, and there’s a glint of a small circle, shining on the girl’s forehead. 

The trees are enormous but somehow Clarke has made them feel comforting instead of suffocating. And the sky, the parts that Lexa can see through the branches – there’s something there. Colorful streaks of light, but also … something about the brush strokes speaks of perpetual movement, of shifting tides. 

“She did it a few months ago,” Wells says quietly. Even with the music pounding, he’s trying to keep his voice low, like they’re in a church. “Octavia lost her shit when she saw it, and made her mom buy it. It’s my favorite of hers.” He smiles proudly. 

Lexa is just staring. It’s very possible her jaw is wide open and she looks, well, as moronic she did the first time she saw Clarke’s painting, but she’s just … immersed. It’s sucking her in. It’s like a glimpse into another world, altered but tantalizingly familiar. It pulls at something inside of her. 

She can’t tell if her head is swimming more from the alcohol or the painting, but she’s light-headed. She and Wells look at it for a few moments, reverent in their admiration. 

“She’s – uh, I mean, this is amazing,” Lexa mutters, eyes still pouring over it. 

“Yeah, she is,” Wells agrees. 

“Lexa?” a voice says happily, and their moment is shattered. Lexa turns around to see a pretty Latina brunette walking towards them, sheer, gauzy blue top and tight jeans. 

“Alana. Hi,” she says. She knows her vaguely from a few classes they share, but beyond a few pleasantries exchanged they haven’t really talked to each other. Lexa’s not sure why the other girl would seek her out. Her mind still feels hazy from the painting. 

Alana’s eyes shift briefly to Wells and the painting and then back to Lexa. “You need another drink?” she asks, nodding at Lexa’s plastic cup. “Come on,” she says, grasping her wrist and not waiting for a response. “Lemme get you one.” 

Lexa shoots a helpless look at Wells (who smirks and crosses his arms) as she’s led, semi-involuntarily, back to the kitchen. It’s cleared out, and Lexa hopes Anya is getting her freak on in the living room. Maybe grinding to the music currently shuddering the windows with Raven. She’s not sure she wants to know where Octavia and Lincoln ended up. 

Alana hops onto the center island when they get there, clearing a space and grabbing Lexa’s cup and the bottle of rum, feet dangling. 

“You having fun?” she asks, smiling widely. Her cheeks are flushed and her eyes glittering, and Lexa knows this drink isn’t her first. But she’s not unbalanced or slurring her words, so Lexa makes an educated guess that she’s had just enough to be a little more uninhibited. 

Her theory is proven correct when Alana splashes some more rum and juice into her cup, handing it back to her and grasping Lexa’s wrist when she reaches out. She grins and tugs Lexa gently into her space, steering her so her arms are brushing against Alana’s knees. 

“Sure,” Lexa answers, now knowing exactly why this girl sought her out. It happens – alcohol making it easier for girls who are just a _little_ curious to explore that. Not that she minds, usually. Alana’s pretty and warm and open, and she doesn’t make Lexa feel like she’s losing her mind. 

Alana takes a sip of her own drink, setting it down with an inviting smirk, and reaches out a hand to let her fingers slip just inside the top of Lexa’s shirt. She grasps it and pulls Lexa into her, opening her legs so that Lexa’s standing between them. 

Lexa raises an eyebrow and gives a crooked smile back (whose potency she is well aware of). “Definitely more fun now.” 

There’s nothing wrong with a little innocent kitchen fondling. An uncomplicated bi-curious expedition might be exactly what she needs. She rests her hands lightly on Alana’s thighs and leans in, brushing her lips lightly against Alana’s cheek and hearing the other girl’s breathing change. 

She feels a welcome shiver of desire, pure and simple. Nothing like the storm of emotions she feels around Clarke and her goddamn ethereal paintings. She can focus on Alana right now, on making her feel good. She is the patient, selfless educator, eager to pass along knowledge and bravery to baby gays. 

She pulls back a little to judge if this is what Alana wants, and the other girl tugs her back, pressing their lips together in a soft kiss. She tastes like pineapple juice and vodka and lipstick, and Lexa keeps it vaguely innocent until Alana slips her tongue in. Alana sighs into her mouth, tongue sliding against hers, and Lexa reaches a hand up to cup the brunette’s jaw. They kiss, licking into warm heat, until Alana moves her mouth to Lexa’s neck, mouth leaving a wet trail. 

Lexa tilts her head slightly and closes her eyes, room spinning pleasantly, blood rushing fast and hot, and when she opens her eyes again it’s to find Clarke standing in the kitchen entrance behind Alana, holding a red solo cup and an unreadable expression on her face as she watches them. 

Lexa’s whole body goes taut, a jolt of excitement and anxious energy shooting through her. Her gut, previously warm and relaxed with slow lust, tightens, clenches like a fist. There’s a frantic buzzing in her head, uncertainty and fuck fuck _fuck_ , and why does this feel like a collision. 

Lexa lets her eyes trail over the other girl before she can stop herself and holy mother of _shit,_ she looks good. 

Clarke’s hair is down, curling tendrils around her face, the clear blue of her eyes intense against eyeliner and dark shadows. She’s wearing a white dress, flaring slightly past her waist, ending several inches above her knee and leading into thin black heels. The top slopes low, showing the soft swell of her breasts, straps leaving her shoulders and collarbones free, and Lexa’s mouth actually _waters_ at the sight of her bared legs and chest. 

She snaps her gaze up so that their eyes meet, over Alana’s shoulder, and Lexa has _no_ idea what Clarke is thinking. Her face is giving away nothing. But she holds her gaze. And keeps holding it, unblinking and inscrutable. And the anxious clench of Lexa’s stomach slowly shifts they longer they look at each other. It turns liquid, hot, shivery with anticipation and potential, and slips into her chest, moves between her legs.   

And, suddenly, Lexa is fucking _aching_. Suddenly every night she touched herself to thoughts of this girl, every punch she threw, every time her feet pounded the street to push her out, every time she shoved down her own longing – the fucking absurd impotency of it all runs through her, and she shudders in Alana’s grasp. 

She feels something break, something she didn’t even know was there. Some barrier, some ineffective dam she set up for self-protection and distance. It’s abruptly gone and there’s a torrent of longing and lust, and it’s huge and overwhelming and fills every part of her body. The fear of how intense it feels is submerged under this new desire to _push_ against something – boundaries, her own attempt at detachment, social niceties, self-control. 

She wants cause and effect. She wants to push Clarke. She wants Clarke, and she’s wanted her for what feels like her entire shitty, goddamn life. 

The sheer _need_ of it courses through her as the moment stretches, as the air contracts and tenses and neither of them break eye contact. Alana continues sucking on her neck (she feels a momentary pang of guilt at essentially using her as a tableau, but fuck it because she can’t stop this), and then Lexa figuratively jumps off the cliff and unfurls the slowest, most predatory smile she can. 

Clarke flushes and Lexa can actually see her pupils dilate and her throat move as she swallows, and she still doesn’t move her gaze. 

Lexa feels a coiling deep in her stomach and between her legs that has nothing to do with the girl currently there. _Stop fucking around, don’t do this, get ahold of yourself_ , some part of her is frantically saying, the remnant of whatever repression she adhered to before, but she lets it slide under the desire to keep _pushing_. 

Still wearing that feral smirk, she shifts her hands towards Alana’s upper thighs and pulls, bringing her flush against her hips, Alana’s clothed center coming into contact with Lexa’s lower stomach. The girl on the kitchen counter makes a whimpering sound in the back of her throat the same time that Clarke inhales sharply, witnessing it, and Lexa really almost fucking loses it. 

Jesus. Jesus _fucking_ Christ.

Clarke’s not looking away. She’s not looking away and her eyes are dark and huge and her tongue pokes out between parted lips (and Anya saying “alleged straightness” flits into Lexa’s head like a bubble popping – damn her). Lexa wants to push off the kitchen island, out of Alana’s grasp, and walk into Clarke’s space. She thinks Clarke would let her, would _want_ her to, would feel warm and smell like subtle perfume and hard liquor. 

She lets go of Alana’s hips, stepping back slightly, when the distant rumbling of noise outside the kitchen coalesces sharply. Bellamy and Finn appear suddenly behind Clarke, laughing and stumbling. 

The tension of the moment snaps like a rubber band and Clarke jerks and snaps her gaze away, and Lexa wants to _fucking murder_ them as the other girl leaves the kitchen, cheeks still flushed, slipping between the two boys without a backwards glance. 

Lexa feels the warmth of Clarke fade away, feels cold and bereft and still aching, even with Alana wrapped around her. She curses under her breath and pushes back from Alana, so quickly that the other girl lets out a startled huff of air. 

“Sorry – bathroom,” Lexa says quickly, barely seeing the surprised hurt on Alana’s face. 

She pushes another squirm of guilt down and slips out of the kitchen, eyes flitting around to seek that flash of blonde hair and white dress. Disappointment, thick and dense, slips into her stomach as she circles the mass of people in the living room and doesn’t see her anywhere. Something is buzzing in her fingertips, something frenetic and desperate – the sensation that this is it, this might be the only chance she has to move around her own self-erected walls. 

Because she didn’t imagine that look on Clarke’s face. The wanting, coursing through Lexa, was echoed in Clarke’s expression as she watched them. 

She’s deflating, resigned, when she notices a glass door leading out to a darkened patio, against the back wall of the living room. She moves to open it, snaking through the mass of people and couples. Cool air rushes over her, music muffled as she closes it behind her. 

Octavia’s house is elevated, on a ridge overlooking the city, and it’s a clear enough night that Lexa can see the distant twinkling lights of the streets and a glowing half-moon. She can hear the muted gurgle of water of the pool she couldn’t see from inside. It’s quieter out here, stiller and calmer. She inhales deeply and snaps her gaze around, surprised, when she sees movement out of the corner of her eye. 

It’s Clarke, stepping forward slowly. She is beautiful, soft light from the house spilling over her. 

Lexa moves towards her, magnetically pulled, but stops dead when she catches a glimpse of her face. 

Clarke looks scared. Her cheeks are still dusted with red, her pupils still wide, but there’s an uncertain anxiety that wasn’t there in the kitchen. A cold sliver of fear and embarrassment drops into Lexa’s chest. She pushed too hard, scared her. Grinning like a fucking wolf at her while grinding into some random girl – why the shit did she think _that_ was an appropriate way to confront the situation? Lexa feels immediately ashamed of herself. Whatever this is, Lexa handled it terribly and Clarke isn’t ready for it. 

Lexa shrinks back, because she never wants to be the cause of the distress and vague panic she sees so clearly on this girl’s face.   

“I – I’m sorry,” Lexa croaks out quietly, voice sounding loud in the sudden silence. She clears her throat and steps back. “I, uh, I’ll leave you alone.” 

She turns around to go back inside. “Wait,” Clarke calls softly, and Lexa stops, frozen. “Lexa, wait. Please.” 

Lexa shivers at her imploring tone, her own name a plea. She turns around and Clarke is suddenly in her space, walking up to her until there’s a bare foot of air between them. Lexa sucks in a breath as she, once again tonight, falls into the oceanic depth of Clarke’s gaze. The other girl’s expression is shifting, changing into what she was wearing when she walked into Lexa’s comic store. Nervousness and uncertainty submerged under determination. 

Lexa opens her mouth to say something more (she’s really not sure what) when Clarke raises a slightly trembling hand to cup Lexa’s face, thumb ghosting along her jaw. Lexa exhales in a startled shudder, breath punched out of her chest, heart thudding swift and hard against her rib cage. 

She can feel the heat of Clarke’s hand, the slight trepidation in her motions. She can see the rise and fall of the other girl’s chest, moving faster, can hear her breathing get more rapid. And she can smell her – an intoxicating blend of honeysuckle and warm spice and _Clarke_.   

Clarke is watching her closely as she moves her fingers over Lexa’s cheek, sliding into her hair, curiosity and longing and a kind of innocent hesitancy on her face, like she’s not entirely sure what she’s doing. Her eyes flick down to Lexa’s mouth, both of their breaths growing shallower as the air around them turns electric and viscous, and Lexa gets only a moment of warning before Clarke moves forward and closes the distance between them. 

Her body is taut, her mind a buzz of white noise as Clarke presses her lips to Lexa’s in a soft, unsure kiss. 

There’s a short period of time, maybe a second, where Lexa’s heart stops beating and her body stops functioning and she exists in a state of nonplussed stasis. But then Clarke’s mouth moves against hers and there’s a warm puff of breath over her lips and she _melts_ into Clarke, a completely unintentional whimper leaving her mouth. 

A wave of heat crests over her, blooming in her chest and stomach, and she surges forward. She cups Clarke’s jaw and back of her neck with one hand, puts the other on her hip, and then Lexa starts kissing her the way she’s been dreaming about for the past five months – thorough and open-mouthed and ravenous. 

Clarke tastes like rum and fruit, tart and sweet, and her mouth is velvet heat and so goddamn delicious. She feels _so good_. Lexa feels drunk on her, on her own yearning for this. She’s been imagining this for what feels like years, and she can’t even begin to describe the inadequacy of those fantasies compared to this. 

She was so wrong in how much she needs this – how she wants to drink her in, how the little hitches in Clarke’s breath nourish her like oxygen, how her own body wants to meld to hers and fuck everything else. She’s never felt like this from one kiss, not even with Costia. Like she’s become a being of pure desire and _need_ , like if they stop she might die. 

She was right about one thing, though. Because she has no control and she couldn’t stop this even if she wanted to.  

She sucks on Clarke’s bottom lip, slight scrape of her teeth and tongue running along it, and when Clarke opens her mouth in a gasp, Lexa slides into it like she’s coming home. She licks into her, meeting Clarke’s tongue and curling around it. Clarke moans, from deep in her chest, a vibration running through her throat and traveling to Lexa, and something jolts violently inside her at that sound. She has a clear, explicit image of them naked together, Clarke’s legs wrapped around her head, wringing moans like that out of her. 

But just the thought that Clarke is feeling even a fraction of what she is – it’s enough to cause a hot coil of desire to drop into her lower stomach. 

There’s too much space between them, Lexa understands suddenly. She moves her whole body forward, pressing them together without another thought. Clarke’s breasts, hips, belly push against hers and she almost cries at how excruciatingly wonderful it feels. 

Lexa’s fingers tighten on Clarke’s side and she lets her fingernails gently scrape at the nape of Clarke’s neck, causing the other girl to shudder and her head to fall slightly back. Lexa angles in, deepening their kiss, and her hips tilt against Clarke’s instinctively, the warm ache between her legs worsening. 

They stay wrapped up, chasing each other’s mouths, bodies bending and molding and pushing, for what could be minutes or hours. Clarke finally pulls back to take a breath and they’re both panting. Lexa almost comes at what she sees – Clarke’s eyes black and hungry, her lips wet and swollen, her breasts heaving with every suck of air. 

Clarke blinks hard, shaking her head as if to clear it. Lexa watches her and swells again with want, fingers twitching. Clarke makes a noise in the back of throat, a disbelieving groan, as if she doesn’t understand what’s happening (Lexa can sympathize), and then drags Lexa’s mouth back to hers in a clash of lips and tongues and teeth. 

Clarke starts pushing them blindly backwards, and Lexa lets out a surprised exhale as her back hits the wall of the house (and thank god this part isn’t one of those floor to ceiling windows cause, awkward). Clarke presses into her, and the sensation of the thin fabric of Clarke’s dress at her front and the rough scrape of the wall at her back, of her entire body sinking into Lexa’s so that she feels all of her curves and swells and hard planes – it’s enough to send her head spinning. 

Clarke thrusts her tongue into her mouth and simultaneously maneuvers her leg to slot between Lexa’s, her dress riding up. Lexa feels lean muscle pressing into the throbbing heat between her thighs and her hips buck, her hands moving unthinkingly to grasp Clarke’s ass and urge her on.  

Lexa’s head snaps back and hits the wall as Clarke rolls her hips, firm pressure against her clit even through the layers of clothing. 

“God,” Clarke groans out into Lexa’s neck. “Lexa – I – what the fuck.” Lexa shudders and can, once again, sympathize. “You feel so _fucking_ good.” 

Lexa whimpers at the thick want in Clarke’s voice, at what she’s saying, and who the fuck knew she craved a narrative during dry-humping? She kneads at Clarke’s ass and the other girl obliges, her leg pushing between hers in a delirious rhythm. Clarke’s mouth closes around Lexa’s neck, teeth grazing, sucking a mark that’ll definitely stay tomorrow. 

“I didn’t know,” Clarke says, low and raspy, into the hollow of Lexa’s shoulder. “I had no idea you would feel like this.” She moves her mouth and nips at Lexa’s earlobe. “I want to touch you so badly.” 

Lexa whines and her hips cant desperately at that, needing friction. There’s a hot, coiling pressure between her legs and deep in her belly and her underwear was fucking ruined like, last week. She did _not_ call this. She thought she would be the initiator in this, that she would be the one shoving Clarke against the wall. But she doesn’t want to move and she can’t imagine this going any other way. She thought she might need to have control over this, to appease her neurotic psyche, but she finds the surrender of it to be even more thrilling. 

“Touch me,” Lexa manages to get out. “Clarke – just touch me.” 

Clarke almost _growls_ at that (underwear – so, so lost), and moves a hand to cup Lexa’s breast through her clothing, fingers finding the small nub of her nipple and rolling it. Lexa gasps and rides Clarke’s thigh, utterly unashamed of the rocking of her hips. A few more angled drives of Clarke’s leg and her soft kneading of Lexa’s breast and, holy _shit,_ she realizes she’s actually close to coming right now. 

“Jesus,” Lexa breathes out. “Clarke, I – I’m –” 

Clarke is just moving her hand down, scraping against the button of Lexa’s jeans, when the door to their right slams open, hitting the wall with a sharp bang. Lexa’s heart thumps against her rib cage, Clarke gasps, and they jerk apart like they’ve been electrically shocked. 

They watch, uncomprehendingly and dazed, as a group of people pour out of the door, thank-fucking-god not noticing the two figures standing in the shadow of the wall. Lexa recognizes Bellamy and Jasper among the crowd, peeling off their shirts, whooping as they cannon-ball into the pool. 

There are shouts and splashes as more people throw themselves into the water, and Clarke stares at her as Lexa slumps against the wall, trying to get her breath back. She’s throbbing and unsatisfied, so close to release, and her stomach clenches at the sheer hunger in Clarke’s eyes. 

“Clarkey!” someone shouts out happily. 

Clarke snaps her head around, hastily smoothing down her dress, and smiles shakily as Raven walks out onto the patio. Lexa is horrified to see Anya following closely behind, looking bored. She very quickly takes in Lexa sagging against the wall, Clarke’s disheveled appearance and flushed cheeks, and the grin that spreads across her face is the single most gleefully malicious thing Lexa has ever seen. 

“Holy shit,” Anya says loudly. Lexa wills her legs to stop shaking and walks towards her as quickly as she can, holding out a hand and trying to wordlessly communicate that Anya should shut the fuck up. “You suave lesbian –” 

Lexa reaches her and slaps a hand over Anya’s mouth, looking at Raven’s arched eyebrow and forcing a smile. “Uh, hey,” she says hoarsely. “I was – I was just admiring the view out here.” 

Raven’s gaze flits between Lexa and Clarke. “Sure,” she says, grinning like everyone knows Lexa’s full of shit. They do. 

Lexa and Clarke exchange a fast, loaded glance before Clarke slings an arm around Raven’s shoulder. “What ridiculous shit did Bell get into in the fifteen minutes I was gone?” she asks easily. 

Raven laughs and slips an arm around Clark’s waist as they walk around the pool, and Anya wrenches Lexa’s hand from her face when they’re a decent distance away. 

“You little slut,” she says, grinning. “You just hit that, didn’t you?” 

Lexa glares at her, to little or no effect. “No,” she answers shortly. 

She looks down at herself for the first time and adjusts her vest and shirt, relieved to see her clothing is more or less in the same shape as it was. She can’t say the same for what’s underneath it. 

Anya delicately peels back the collar of Lexa’s button-up, exposing her neck and shoulder, and lets out a delighted laugh at the bruise it reveals. Lexa, irritated, swats her hand away and buttons up her blouse to the top, smoothing out her collar. She’s still trembling a little, arousal heavy in her gut, veins still rushing with adrenaline. She watches as Clarke and Raven crouch near the pool, talking to some of the swimmers, and lets her eyes run along the bare muscles of Clarke’s legs.  

Anya laughs again. “You were just cockblocked by half of the senior class, you poor, hopeless child.” She grabs Lexa’s hand and leads them both back into the house. “You need another drink.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All of the comments and kudos you guys are leaving - ah, they're like sustenance for my soul. Thank you for the fabulous response!

Lexa wakes up Sunday morning with a dry mouth, pounding head, and a bladder that feels the size of a watermelon, but also the distinct impression that it _could_ have been much worse. 

Anya, who is unfortunately intimately familiar with the state of being black-out drunk, is usually very careful to draw that line, both for herself and her friends. So when Lexa’s eyes began sliding shut on their own accord and her enunciation skills degenerated, Anya bundled them both into an Uber. When they got to Lexa’s house, she made Lexa drink four large glasses of water, change into boxers and a shirt, wipe off her face, and collapse into bed with a bottle of aspirin on her night table. 

She finds she’s eternally grateful, and swallows two pills after pissing for forty-five seconds straight (letting out an accompanying moan that sounded embarrassingly like the sounds she was making last night with Clarke). Lexa pads into the kitchen just before noon, finding Anya still curled up on the couch under her favorite soft blanket, and starts cooking breakfast. 

Anya and Aden both start stirring at the smell of pancakes, eggs, and bacon. They sit at the table, bleary-eyed but eager, and start wolfing down the enormous plates Lexa puts in front of them. Lexa sits too, and groans appreciatively on the first bite. Nothing like a huge, carb-laden breakfast to combat a hangover. 

Lexa remembers almost all of last night. After her and Clarke’s escapades (her stomach gives a pleasurable little twist at the memory), she recalls Bellamy dragging a folding table outside onto the patio to set up a truly epic game of beer pong. Bell was being surprisingly reconciliatory and invited Lincoln and Octavia to play against himself and a girl (Gina, Lexa guesses). This somehow devolved into a complex competition involving eight other people, stripping after chugging a full cup of beer, and a butterfly relay swim race.

Lexa only mildly remembers the end of that; she had gulped down a few more mixed drinks by then, and she and Clarke were intent on thoroughly eye-fucking each other from across the room. She didn’t even care when Anya called her out on it, shoving her for her inattention. She felt the other girl’s presence, the heaviness of her gaze, the entire night, even when they were on opposite sides of the house. 

In the spirit of total candor, she _had_ wanted to drag Clarke into the nearest bathroom and finish what they started, but some rational part of her acknowledged that slowing this down a little would be better than a spontaneous, drunken hook-up. She’s almost certain that was Clarke’s first experience with a girl (but who the fuck would have guessed?), and she didn’t want it to culminate in a quick, sloppy, semi-public orgasm. 

Lexa takes a bite of her bacon and allows herself to really think about what last night meant. So much for not pursuing anything, she thinks wryly. But … she’s surprised to find an absence of what’s been guiding her actions for the last few months – that sharp edge of panic. She doesn’t know exactly what’s muted it, turned it into a manageable prickle of discomfort, but the idea of them _together_ , in whatever way, isn’t as terrifying as it once was. 

Even the recognition that all of Lexa’s safely-improbable fantasies have abruptly and unequivocally moved into the concrete realm, that Clarke very potentially feels similarly, even _that_ isn’t sending her into a spiral of denial and repression. 

Maybe it’s that she can’t stop smiling when she thinks of Clarke’s lips on hers, of the other girl’s taste and smell, of how her body felt. Maybe it helps that Lexa can’t fucking _wait_ to do it again, and in lots of different and creative ways. Or that she would currently cut off her left pinky finger just to see Clarke give her that blinding grin again. Maybe it’s that there’s a feeling in the air around her, of anticipation and possibility. 

She is so royally _fucked_ by this girl and she’s tired of denying it. 

“Aden, do you see what’s happening over there?” Anya asks, gesturing at Lexa. “Do you see how your sister just, apropos of nothing, started smiling like a complete idiot?” 

Aden nods thoughtfully, putting his fork down. “Why, yes, Anya, I do see that,” he says, like he’s answering a question from a teacher. 

Lexa is horrified to realize that she was, indeed, smiling softly. She clenches her jaw and flips them both off. 

Anya leans back in her chair, sighing in satisfaction at her empty plate. “That, my sweet pupil, is what is colloquially known as ‘an overabundance of gay.’ It can, in some rare instances, result in a full-body rash.” 

Lexa glares and gathers their plates up, ignoring Anya’s smirk. 

“What typically causes this ‘overabundance,’ sensei?” Aden asks, keeping up the educational pretense. 

“Yeah, Lex, what does cause it?” Anya asks, mock-curious. “It could be watching _Whip It_ for the first time. It could be being exposed to a Hayley Kiyoko music video. Or,” she raises her finger like she’s just thought of something, “it could be partaking in a vicious, shadowy make-out session with the girl you’ve had lady-wood for since the year started.” 

Aden gasps in delighted shock, hands hitting the table. “Who, Lex?” he asks excitedly. She wonders if she should be more concerned with how happy he is, but she supposes that Aden, like Anya, knows Lexa hasn’t had legitimate feelings for anyone since Costia. 

When Lexa just starts washing the dishes without responding, Aden leans on the counter next to the sink, all puppy-dog eyes and pouting. “Please?” he asks, clasping his hands together in supplication.

Lexa spares him one unamused glance. 

“Anya, help a brother out here,” Aden says, turning to her. 

Anya pauses in a suitably dramatic fashion. “It was one Clarke Griffin.” 

Aden actually, literally squeals, and Lexa momentarily questions his own heterosexuality. “The nice blonde!” He sighs wistfully. “She’s so pretty.” 

“Shut up,” Lexa says, finally. 

They lounge contentedly after brunch, playing video games, scrolling through reddit and ribbing constantly on Lexa. Later, Lexa firmly reminds Aden to finish his homework, and she and Anya go to Gus’s gym. They step through the ropes into the familiar ring and exchange a few jabs and kicks, grinning at each other. 

It doesn’t feel as desperate as it previously did, like the only way Lexa could breathe was through pain and self-flagellation. When Anya catches Lexa’s legs in a low sweep and she goes down in an ungraceful heap, she sucks in air and starts laughing, surprising both of them. She lies on the dirty, blood- and sweat-stained floor, puts her hands over her stomach and laughs, feeling suddenly weightless and giddy. 

Anya stares at her for a moment like she’s gone totally insane, but then squats down next to her and grins. It’s a soft, affectionate grin, nothing like her typical sardonic smirk, and Lexa loves it. Whatever happens, Lexa thinks, it’s going to be okay. It’s not the end of the world. 

*** 

It’s the end of the fucking world. 

Why did she think she was emotionally mature enough to handle this? Why did she think she could walk into this terrible, terrible building and face the girl she had almost drunkenly nutted over two nights ago? 

She’s _nervous_ and this is fucking unacceptable. Lexa doesn’t do nervous. She does mildly uncertain until her default nonchalant badass motherfucker state kicks in, and then nerves are irrelevant. But now she’s walking down the hallways and her stomach is wriggling and every time she think she sees Clarke her heart jumps into her throat. 

Because swapping inebriated spit under cover of affluent darkness is _not_ the same as facing each other in public and the cold light of day. She has no idea how Clarke is feeling – whether she’s regretting her adventure in sexuality, or resents Lexa for taking advantage of the situation (although Clarke was totally the aggressor, but sometimes sober hindsight adopts a different perspective), or feels so mortified about the entire thing that she won’t look Lexa in the eye for the next six months. They can’t communicate in gasps and inappropriate touching – this will require actual words. 

Lexa straightens her head and chin, pushes her shoulders back, and walks like she gives exactly zero fucks. She’ll let Clarke set the pace for this. If she doesn’t want to talk about it, Lexa will give her some time. 

She’s sitting down for her first-period math class (and, yes, she knows Clarke is in this one but it’s large enough and they sit on opposite sides of the room so she’s barely in her periphery) when the girl herself walks in and proceeds to make a beeline directly for Lexa. 

“I figured this was kind of overdue,” Clarke says, looking (as per usual) horrendously attractive and smiling as if nothing extraordinary is happening. She drops a piece of paper down onto Lexa’s desk and then goes to her normal seat across the room. 

Lexa blinks hard, feeling like she left her entire brain and most of her body outside, and is just now catching up. She picks up the paper.

It’s Clarke’s phone number. 

She buries her smile in her Pre-Calc textbook. 

*** 

She waits a few reasonable hours before texting her, fingers twitching. 

_**Lexa** : h_ _ey, it’s Lexa_  

Brief, succinct. No point in trying to be cute. Clarke responds within minutes. 

**_Clarke:_** _howdy stranger_  

Lexa decides to stop while she’s ahead and leaves it at that, rationalizing that the things they need to talk about shouldn’t be over text anyway. 

They acknowledge each other’s presence throughout the rest of the day, little smiles and extended eye contact. Lexa’s gut decides to give her an inconvenient jolt every time their gazes lock, every time she sees Clarke deliberately sweep the room for her. Fortunately, she only sees Alana at a distance, because there’s really no way that shit’s not gonna be uncomfortable as hell. 

Lexa’s at her shift at the comic store, flipping through the newest _Paper Girls_ volume when her phone buzzes again. 

**_Clarke:_** _professional opinion. batman or superman?_

Lexa smiles. She likes that Clarke is asking an inane question just to get them talking. She was thinking of doing the same thing, but Clarke is clearly much smoother than she is when it comes to awkward post-make-out chatting. 

**_Lexa:_** _I once heard an illustrator describe it like this: one is an immigrant, standing up for ideals of truth and justice and the little guy. the other is a rich white guy who beats up the mentally ill_

**_Clarke:_** _ha well that’s a mic drop if I ever heard one_

**_Lexa:_** _can’t take credit for it, unfortunately. but I do actually think batman is a more interesting, morally ambiguous character. superman’s kinda boring. except that mini-series where he lands in stalinist russia instead of kansas and becomes a champion for the proletariat_

**_Clarke:_** _holy BALLS_

**_Clarke:_** _that sounds apeshit_

**_Clarke:_** _I have so much to learn from you_

Lexa stops at that. She flashes back to Clarke gasping curses into her neck, and can’t help but draw a non-comic parallel. She wonders if Clarke meant it like that. 

**_Lexa:_** _in the job description, remember_

**_Clarke:_** _i’m gonna hold you to that. you’re gonna be my gateway drug to comics_

**_Lexa:_** _I’m honored, truly_

She pauses, weighing if she should say what she’s thinking. She hasn’t brought it up before but … why the fuck not. 

**_Lexa:_** _you can return the favor with art history and painting techniques. i wanna be an abstract impressionist expert within three weeks. no pressure_

**_Clarke:_** _oh I see how it is. a little quid pro quo, huh clarice_

**_Clarke:_** _y_ _ou think I’m good enough at painting to impart such wisdom? the only work of mine you’ve seen is that time you spied on me last year :)_

Lexa is grateful for the smiley face at the end of that, to take the sting out of Clarke’s completely justifiable assertion. It’s the first time either of them have acknowledged that happened. 

**_Lexa:_** _yeah, I also saw your painting at Octavia’s house. it was one of the best things I’ve ever seen_  

There’s a longer pause at that. Lexa begins inwardly panicking, thinking she went too far. Oh god, she’s effusive and clingy. She’s _that_ person. The one who is so idolizing it’s embarrassing for everyone else around them. 

**_Clarke:_** _that’s – thanks, lexa. that’s incredibly sweet of you_

**_Lexa:_** _you’re welcome_

There’s a natural lull in their conversation and Lexa goes back to her comic, warm at the feeling that she gave Clarke a genuine and well-received compliment, but also uncomfortable in the enthusiasm she revealed. She’s not usually so … sentimental. But it was the total truth. She can still perfectly visualize both of Clarke’s paintings. 

Lexa makes chicken tacos for herself, Aden, and Anya that night, and they watch Sawyer and Jack shove it out again on the island after Aden assures her his homework is done. He gives her a spontaneous hug before going to his room, and she returns it, surprised and grateful. He’s a good little brother. She stays up late enough to warm up leftovers for her mom when she comes in, collapsing into a kitchen chair with ill-disguised weariness. 

She’s laying in her bed, in that hazy state between consciousness and unconsciousness, when she sees Clarke’s painting of the girl in the woods again. Except it’s Clarke herself sitting on the ground, staring straight at Lexa with dark, haunted eyes, the hand on her knee clasping a gun. Lexa jolts awake at that, heart pounding, confused at the clarity of the image. It takes her awhile to get back to sleep, and she remembers nothing of it when she wakes up the next morning. 

*** 

Clarke sends her more innocuous texts over the next few days, asking her opinions on random topics, keeping up a steady stream of connection. Lexa enjoys it, even though they’re not discussing anything especially meaningful. Just the (metaphorical) proximity is comforting. And the thought that Clarke is thinking of her, just as frequently as she’s thinking of the other girl, is validating. 

Because she’s thinking about her. All the time. Whether it’s replaying the events of Saturday night over and over again in crystalline detail (and fuck if she doesn’t have some legit masturbatory material now), or sneaking secretive glances at her during lunch and classes, or hearing her laugh echo down the hallways and feeling like she’s just been covered by a warm blanket, Clarke is always there. 

And Lexa wants more, of course she does (goddamn her). She feels a constant pull towards her, an ache in her gut to be closer because there’s always so much inconvenient _space_ between them. She wants a way to actually talk to her, to pull a figurative curtain around them and slink away from the world to talk and kiss and maybe get naked. 

But she doesn’t know exactly how to do that. She could just suck it up and be direct, and ask her out on a date. And maybe, at some other point in Lexa’s life, either pre-Costia or further on post-Costia, she would do that. But that hot squirm of discomfort in her stomach at the thought of being that blatantly vulnerable, of setting up rejection vs. absolution in a yes/no format, makes her recoil from that option. 

Because what if Clarke says no? Because what if she’s not looking for that, or isn’t sure, or Lexa is misreading the entire situation? She’s not sure how she could handle the fallout from that. 

So she dances around it. She and Clarke exchange safely superficial texts, Lexa tries to work out a circuitous way to invite a little more intimacy between them, and she goes to sleep with the sensation of Clarke’s mouth, hot and eager, on hers.

Lexa comes home after her shift Thursday night to find Nyko, Luna, Tris, and Aden dancing in her living room to Carly Rae Jepsen (mostly Aden, really – Nyko is just being steered forcefully around the room). They point her to the Chinese food in the fridge and she sits on the floor next to Luna in the armchair, munching happily while the other three play _Assassin’s Creed_. 

Luna braids her hair with soft, deft fingers while talking shit about Nyko’s playing abilities, and Lexa tries to figure out if they’re fucking. She thinks it’s a casual thing, a simple, convenient arrangement, until Nyko looks at Luna after one especially scathing remark, and his rolling eyes hold such a measure of familiar tenderness that Lexa revises her opinion. 

Seems like everyone is finding someone to develop confusingly emotional attachments with. 

She stays behind to run that Friday evening. She works on her Chemistry homework (son of a bitch valence electrons) in the library until she sees the football and track players shuffle off the field. She goes into the locker room, pulls her hair into a hasty ponytail, changes into a loose, sleeveless shirt, light shorts and her running shoes, and then stretches on the grass in the slanting light. 

She sets a casual pace at first, jogging with MGMT and Passion Pit in her earbuds, and then increases it over the next few laps until her shirt is sticking to her stomach and back. She crouches over at the end of her last lap, hands on her knees, breathing deeply. 

When she raises her head again, her breath stutters in her throat. Because _Clarke_ is walking towards her from the school building, hand raised in tentative greeting. She’s in her painting clothes, Lexa can immediately see: tattered and stained cut-off jean shorts and a tank top, with her hair curling softly around her ears and old, creased Chuck Taylors. 

Lexa drapes her earbuds around her neck and straightens up, heart rate picking up in a way that has nothing to do with running. She is suddenly very aware of how sweaty she is. 

“Hey,” Clarke says, smiling. 

“Hi,” Lexa responds quietly. 

Clarke gestures around them. “I’ve seen you out here a few times, you know. One of the windows in the art studio overlooks the field.” She tilts her head quizzically. “You don’t half-ass things, do you?” 

Lexa huffs out a surprised laugh and grabs the bottom of her shirt, lifting it up to wipe her face. She opens her mouth to respond when she sees Clarke, eyes wide and focused on her own exposed abdomen. Lexa flushes and drops her shirt, keeping her eyes on the ground to give Clarke a chance to prepare her expression. 

When she looks back up, Clarke is staring at her, openly admiring smirk on her face that makes Lexa’s stomach heat up. 

She clears her throat in a terrible attempt to cover up the increasing ruddiness of her cheeks. “I like running,” she says, intelligently. _God,_ communication is easier when you have time to compose the words. Or when you’re drunk and horny and words are unnecessary. “I guess I subscribe to the ‘go big or go home’ ideology. Half-assing is for the ambivalent.” 

Clarke raises an eyebrow. “Good to know,” she says, and, _fuck yes_ , she is flirting right now. Lexa can’t help the answering happy smirk on her own face. 

Clarke jerks her chin towards the structure behind her. “You wanna see what I’m working on?” 

Lexa’s eyes widen before she can stop them. Get it together, she tells herself sternly, and nods decisively. “Yeah. Lead the way,” she says. 

She grabs her stuff from the bench near the track, trying to furtively wipe herself down with a towel from her bag, while Clarke guides them back into the school hallways. Their shoes slap against the linoleum, echoing and loud in the unfamiliar silence, and when they reach the door to the art studio Clarke pulls out a keychain from her pocket. 

“Ms. Suarez gave me the key when I wanted to work late,” she explains, unlocking it. “She’s a wonderful human being.” Clarke pushes the door open and stands back, letting Lexa walk past her into the room. 

Lexa experiences a severe sense of déjà vu as she sees the unfinished painting and stops dead in the middle of the room. She’s pinned to the spot again, sucked in and stuck on a breath. 

It’s the back of a girl, standing on the balcony of a huge tower. The girl is almost completely painted in, so Lexa can see the glimpse of her profile as she looks slightly to the left, sharp jawline and narrowed eyes. Her hair is braided in the same complicated way as the girl in Clarke’s forest painting, and Lexa thinks they might be the same person. She’s wearing an odd amalgam of clothing, cloth and leather and fur, like pieces of different outfits thrown together. 

The most arresting part of her is the sword sheath, slung diagonally across her back with the hilt, wrapped in a worn thong of leather, barely visible. The vista before her, spread out at her feet, is sketched in lightly with a pencil, so Lexa can make out lean-tos, dirty streets, and ramshackle buildings with metal, corrugated roofs. 

She walks closer without realizing it. She wants to see this girl’s face. She feels … strangely familiar. 

“I don’t know who she is,” Clarke whispers next to her, like she’s following the same train of thought that Lexa is. She’s moved right up to her side without her noticing it. “But she won’t leave me alone.” Lexa feels Clarke looking at her intently, and barely hears her murmur, “I think she looks like you.” 

Lexa snaps her head around to meet Clarke’s heavy and enigmatic gaze, trying to absorb that statement. 

“Like me?” she echoes weakly. She inhales and smells Clarke, so close she’s almost dizzy.

Clarke nods, shifting to look at the painting. The only sign she’s uncomfortable divulging this is a smattering of pink across her cheeks. “I can visualize her so clearly. She’s strong and ruthless and compassionate. Handy with a sword too.” She gives her a crooked smile, but there’s something under it. “And she looks exactly like you.” 

Lexa can only imagine Clarke sitting here for hours, creating these beautiful worlds, her face still with concentration, her head tilted as she examines her work. And she’s thinking about Lexa. It fills her stomach with something warm and aching. 

The air around them suddenly flexes, tightens, and Lexa moves closer almost unconsciously. Clarke’s eyes are round and searching, and when they flick down to Lexa’s mouth, she feels like she’s balancing precariously on a high ledge. 

So … she jumps. She grabs the back of Clarke’s head and crushes their mouths together, swallowing her gasp. 

The kiss doesn’t start softly or hesitantly like their first one – it’s impatient and hungry, pushing her tongue into Clarke’s mouth and licking the roof of her mouth, angling her head to consume as much of her as she can. Clarke responds with just as much fervor, tongue reaching out meet hers, hand splayed on the middle of Lexa’s back to press them together. They’re both shivering as Lexa bites down on Clarke’s lower lip, sucking it, and Clarke’s hand closes on the damp fabric of Lexa’s shirt, fingernails scrabbling against her back. 

As much as Lexa loved the heady scent of rum on Clarke, the hazy softness of tipsy kissing on Saturday night, the lucidity of sobriety is making this time _so_ much better. She can taste, feel, smell her so much more clearly now – can experience Clarke stripped of filters and distractions. Lexa finds Clarke is intoxicating enough on her own without the added weight of alcohol. 

Lexa pushes them backwards until the back of Clarke’s thighs hit the table against the left wall, paint supplies tipping over and rolling, the other girl inhaling sharply. Lexa hopes all of the tubes and cans are closed, because there is no _fucking_ way she’s stopping. She clamps down on a half-sob of sheer neediness as it rises from her chest, almost strangling her with its intensity. She wants Clarke so much right now she feels on _fire_ , filled with something searing and potent and desperate. 

Lexa leans forward a little and lowers both of her hands to grasp the bottom of Clarke’s thighs, gripping them hard and lifting her up to sit on the table. Clarke moans at the abrupt strength of the motion, wrapping her legs securely around Lexa’s waist and angling into her, grinding into her stomach. Lexa feels the heat of her, even through layers of clothing, and groans helplessly into Clarke’s mouth. 

And suddenly both of them are tugging at each other’s shirts, skin hot and wanting. Lexa leans back to take off Clarke’s shirt and hesitates, eyes flicking to the closed door. 

“There’s no one out there,” Clarke says breathlessly, shaking her head. “Everyone’s gone home.” 

Lexa is still unmoving, wavering, when Clarke grasps her own shirt and rips it off without further preamble. Lexa stares as Clarke raises an eyebrow towards her, as if saying, “Your turn now.” Lexa finds it persuasive. 

She tugs her own shirt off, throwing it to the side. They press back together immediately, Lexa’s stomach, still a little slick with sweat, sliding against Clarke’s, clothed breasts rubbing together in a friction that makes her shudder. She slips a hand between them, dragging fingertips up Clarke’s shivering stomach to reach the bottom of her bra. Lexa pulls back a little, looking to Clarke for permission, and the other girl groans impatiently, reaching behind herself to unsnap her own bra and sliding it off before Lexa can ask anything. 

Lexa stares at Clarke’s bare chest and stomach, momentarily forgetting everything else. She takes in the soft slope of her stomach, muscles juddering under her gaze, and moves up to Clarke’s full breasts, supple and rising and falling with each breath. Her nipples are pink and hard, pebbling under her gaze. Clarke makes a little whine of frustration and tangles her hand in Lexa’s hair, tugging on it to get Lexa’s attention. 

When she pulls harder, guiding her down to her chest, Lexa hisses in pain and pleasure and fucking _hell_ she did _not_ know she liked that. At Clarke’s insistent motions, Lexa obliges (quite happily) and lowers her mouth to cover one of Clarke’s nipples, grazing it with her teeth. Clarke tilts her head back and lets out a choked moan as Lexa moves a hand to cup her other breast, squeezing it softly, rolling the nipple between her fingers. Clarke juts her hips forward when Lexa sucks a nipple into her mouth, rubbing the seam of her cut-off shorts against Lexa’s stomach and gasping at the friction. 

She makes another whine in the back of her throat before suddenly pushing at Lexa’s sternum, detaching her from Clarke’s chest. Lexa backs up immediately, alarmed that she went too far and ready to voice an apology, when she witnesses what may very well be the hottest thing she’s ever seen. 

Clarke snakes a hand down her own bare chest and stomach, unbuttoning her jeans with trembling fingers and slipping inside of her own underwear. She whimpers, closing her eyes as fingers slide further in, and Lexa can really only make an educated guess as to what’s happening because all she can see is the outline of where her hand is (and jesus _fuck_ if that’s not the most horrendously sexy thing ever). 

Clarke opens her eyes, pupils huge and hungry, chest heaving, to remove her own hand and grab one of Lexa’s, slipping it under her panties to reach between her legs. 

Lexa feels a moan punched out of her as her fingers meet velvet heat, as she slides through wet folds. Clarke is fucking _soaked_. 

“ _Clarke_ ,” she gasps out brokenly. “You’re so wet. _God¸_ you’re so wet for me.” 

Clarke is shivering in her grasp, moaning in shuddery breaths. The sensation, of fingers moving through a girl for the first time, is always inimitable, almost a reverential experience. But this is _Clarke_. And Lexa’s been imagining this for so long she had half-way convinced herself it had already happened, and that she would be prepared when it actually did. She is so _wrong_. It’s already the best thing she’s ever felt. It’s already the only place she wants to be. 

She takes her time at first, exploring the spots that pull noises from Clarke’s chest, circling around her entrance and reveling in the liquid coating her fingers. She moves up to find Clarke’s clit, passing over it in light touches, grazing it without fully pressing down. Clarke is bucking into her hand, fingernails scraping red lines onto Lexa’s bare back (and _again_ with the slight masochistic tendencies, cause Lexa is totally digging it), urging her towards _more._  

“Lexa,” Clarke says, her voice low and rough and impatient after several moments of this, “I swear to god, if you don’t start _fucking_ me in the next thirty sec –” 

Clarke’s so wet that when Lexa pushes two fingers into her, knuckle-deep, they go in without almost any resistance. Clarke lets out one of the loudest, filthiest moans Lexa’s ever heard when she enters her and somehow, even in the lust-soaked, awed haze she’s in, Lexa remembers exactly where they are. She wrenches her head around, just to make sure that she can’t see anyone through the door from her limited vantage point, and kisses Clarke to muffle her. 

“Clarke,” she hisses into her mouth, “you have to be quiet.” 

Clarke responds by thrusting her tongue into Lexa’s mouth and, yeah okay, that’s a compelling argument. They kiss deeply, frantically, while Lexa curls her fingers inside of Clarke and is dazed and light-headed at the sensation of walls clenching around her, wet heat sucking her in. She almost can’t believe this is actually happening. That she’s _inside_ of Clarke, fucking her on a table in a school art studio, and Clarke is kissing her like she wants to devour her. Lexa wants to cry at how good everything feels. She almost wants to drag it out as long as humanly possible, just to prolong the moment. 

Clarke clearly has no such reservations. She moves one arm behind her own body, propping herself up with a hand splayed on the table and leaning back. Shifting one of her legs to move it higher on Lexa’s torso, she spreads her thighs and opens herself wider. Lexa receives the message and takes advantage of the new angle, pulling her hand completely out and pushing back in with three fingers, reaching as deep as she can, savoring the stretch of Clarke’s walls. 

She swallows the high, keening whimper Clarke makes at that, and unconsciously grinds her own hips forward, blindly searching for relief from the ache between her legs. Their position is still a little awkward, with Lexa’s hand trapped between the shorts and underwear Clarke is still wearing. Her wrist starts aching the moment she pulls out and thrusts back in, beginning a deep, slow rhythm. Lexa, however, could not give less of a fuck about her own body. She can suffer through a wrist ache if it means she can make Clarke come (preferably more than once). 

She curls her fingers every time she pushes in, rubbing against the ridged wall that makes Clarke whimper every time she hits it, and moves her mouth to bite down on Clarke’s neck, tasting the flutter of her pulse point. 

“ _Fuck_ , Lexa,” Clarke exhales. “Oh, _fuck_. Harder.” 

Lexa increases her pace, driving into her, her own hips starting an involuntary rhythm and pushing her hand deeper inside. Clarke is whining with every thrust, a high-pitched breathy little noise that Lexa sucks down greedily. One of Clarke’s hands snakes into Lexa’s hair, fisting it and pulling with enough strength to send small jolts of pain through her head. Lexa bites down harder onto Clarke’s neck, mouth making a suction, and fucking _loves_ it. 

She makes it rougher, harder, because it seems like Clarke is enjoying it just as much as she is. She can be gentle another time, but right now it seems like they both need this. She feels Clarke tighten around her with every forceful push, getting louder and more desperate, fingernails scrabbling against her scalp. 

“Oh, like that, _yeah_ , fuck,” Clarke is gasping, almost continuously now. “Keep – don’t stop, _shit,_ Lex _._ ” 

Costia wasn’t really much of a talker during sex, but Lexa is gaining a certain amount of self-knowledge from these encounters, and realizing that she likes a lot of things she didn’t necessarily think she would. Clarke’s continual encouragements and orders, the roughness of this, the slight power differential – she thinks that Clarke is going to teach her a _lot_ of things if they keep doing this. 

And, god, she hopes they do, as she snaps her hips behind her hand and feels an accompanying throb between her thighs. Clarke is fluttering around her fingers, pulling her in, and Lexa knows she’s close. Right when Clarke’s legs lock around her with bruising force, when she feels Clarke’s muscles go taut in anticipation, she moves her thumb to rub against Clarke’s clit and thrusts in one more time. 

Clarke breaks, coming around her with a shattered cry that Lexa tries to cover with her mouth. Her entire body goes rigid, her back arching, head back and mouth open, her hand digging into Lexa’s shoulder almost painfully. Lexa pulls back a little to watch her, silent in her veneration. Clarke is so goddamn _beautiful_ like this, face twisted up in pleasure, body shuddering as her climax courses through her. Lexa stays inside her, helping her ride it out with gentle but consistent pressure. 

Clarke’s body relaxes after a few moments, slumping forward into Lexa’s grasp, her head dropping onto Lexa’s shoulder with an exhale of warm breath. Her legs stay curled around Lexa, and the casual slackening of her limbs eventually turns into them leaning into each other, wrapped in a not-quite-embrace. 

Lexa gently extricates her hand from Clarke’s shorts and spreads her hand across the other girl’s stomach, fingers ghosting over smooth, warm skin. Her head is resting in the hollow of Clarke’s neck, and she breathes in deeply, savoring the closeness. She drops a soft kiss onto the mark she sucked in earlier, half-apologetically. 

Lexa is vaguely considering the logistics of divesting Clarke of her shorts and panties and dropping to her knees when a muted whirring noise starts outside. 

“ _Shit,_ ” Clarke hisses, pushing back from Lexa. “That’s the cleaning dude.” She shoves Lexa unceremoniously away, hops down off the table and starts pulling her bra back on frantically. “What is this half-transparent door bullshit. Who needs half a door?” she mumbles distractedly, throwing her shirt on. 

Lexa finds her own shirt and tugs it back on, grimacing at its still-present dampness. They stare at each other for a moment, finally fully dressed, and Lexa suddenly has no idea what to do with her arms. Or the rest of her body. Awkwardness seeps into the air between them. 

Until, “I kind of thought you were with Finn,” Lexa blurts out, and then winces. “There was supposed to be a natural segue into that.” 

Clarke grins, and Lexa relaxes a fraction. “No, we’re not dating,” she says. “We just hooked up a few times.” 

“Oh.” There’s an obvious follow-up question to that (are we just hooking up too?) but Lexa’s not sure she wants to go there. Yet. She takes the slightly less intimidating conversational route. “I want to ask you something but – but I’m not sure it’s my business.” 

Clarke raises her eyebrows. “Hit me. I’ll let you know.” 

“Am I the first girl you’ve been with?” 

Clarke takes a deep breath, brow furrowing. “Yeah,” she sighs. 

Lexa feels her stomach drop at the almost disappointed tone in Clarke’s voice and she cringes. Clarke realizes how her statement could have been interpreted and starts waving her hands, expression turning panicky. 

“No, no, no – god, that came out wrong. I didn’t mean – I didn’t mean it like it was a bad thing.” She walks forward and places a reassuring hand on Lexa’s forearm. “This was wonderful, Lexa. You were –” she cocks her head, “well, do I honestly need to tell you that you were amazing?” 

Lexa flushes and tries not to let a smug grin take over her face. Clarke continues, “It’s just that I’m still coming to terms with this. I’ve had some crushes on girls before, but this …” she trails off, but then locks gazes with Lexa. “I haven’t felt this way about a girl before, and it’s – it _was_ a little terrifying.” 

Lexa nods in understanding, giving her a small smile. “Yeah, I get that. Figuring your sexuality out is never easy.” 

Clarke laughs a little. “Well, especially after today, I don’t _really_ think I can claim to be totally straight.” She gives Lexa a crooked smirk, confidence clearly returning. “And I don’t particularly want to.” 

And there, Lexa can see the girl who just unselfconsciously threatened violence if Lexa didn’t fuck her. She finds it intriguing, that both of them are so much more comfortable expressing themselves when it involves dirty talk or sexual commands. She hopes they can get to the point where they’re equally comfortable in whatever situation, fucking or not. And then she reflects on the fact that she assigned them a future. One not necessarily centered around sex. 

“Good to know,” Lexa responds with a smirk of her own.

Clarke’s gaze on Lexa turns hot and pensive. She moves her hand to graze fingers across the bruise she made Saturday on Lexa’s neck, healing but still barely visible, and Lexa shivers. “I haven’t really considered myself straight since I started noticing you,” Clarke says in a low voice, eyes bright blue and burning. 

Lexa swallows hard. She wants to say that that’s the most flattering thing a girl has _ever_ said to her, or ask when precisely she began noticing her, but then Clarke starts leaning in, fingers still caressing her neck, and she forgets how to say words. 

They’re inches apart, warm breath ghosting over Lexa’s lips, when there’s a sharp knock on the door to the art studio. They jerk apart, blinking fast, and turn to see the school janitor outside of the door, wearing headphones and waving happily at them. 

Clarke smiles weakly. “Hey, Bruce,” she says, enunciating her words so he can make out what she’s saying. 

“Hi, Clarke!” he says loudly. He’s in his 40s, shaggy brown hair, scruffy shadow along his jawline and an open, friendly face. “Have yourself a good night, yeah?” 

She waves at him and shakes her head in fond exasperation when he leaves. “He’s a sweetheart. Terrible timing, but a teddy bear.” 

Lexa is shrinking a little in disappointment when Clarke abruptly grasps the front of Lexa’s shirt and pulls her close to kiss, quick and firm. 

“You got a reprieve, Woods,” she whispers into her mouth, eyes glinting. She reaches down, slips a fingertip just inside the waistband of Lexa’s shorts and lets it snap back. “But I’m getting what’s mine next time.” 

Lexa lets out a shaky laugh and reflects, not for the first or certainly last time, that she is so incredibly _fucked_. 

*** 

“These are traditionally made from an animal, yeah?” Anya asks, gripping the hot dog delicately between two fingers and looking at it like it could sprout limbs at any second and fling itself at her. 

“Didn’t peg you for a traditionalist,” Raven says. 

“Did you peg me for someone with a healthy sense of self-preservation?” Anya grumbles back, putting the offending object down on her plate. 

“You don’t want it to be from an animal?” Raven asks, frowning, poking at her own. 

“I don’t want it to be from a _person,_ ” Anya responds. “If I have to resort to cannibalism, I at least want it to be a voluntary decision.” 

Raven looks horrified. “You would voluntarily decide to be a cannibal?” 

Anya shrugs, unconcerned. “I’m sure I’d have a good reason.” 

Raven cocks her head, staring at her quizzically. “You’re not like other earth creatures.” 

Anya turns her head to smile at her. It _almost_ looks like her characteristic smirk, but if Lexa didn’t know her as thoroughly as she did, she’d miss the underlying affection. Lexa grins into her own tray, because she _so_ called this. Like weeks ago. 

She looks up at Clarke across the cafeteria table, who’s watching her with a questioning smile, eyebrows raised. 

Lexa shakes her head using the smallest motions she can, trying to communicate that she’ll tell her later. She would be surprised if Clarke didn’t have some idea – she knows Raven well and she’s pretty perceptive. 

It’s Wednesday, the week after the art studio. Lexa had gone through her weekend vacillating between eager giddiness and uncertain anxiety, rolling the mental tape of their table sex through her head during down moments (and when she wasn’t around family members). 

Giddiness because she actually _misses_ Clarke for the short duration of those two days and can’t wait to see her again. She holds a full-surround image of her in her mind, imagines how her eyes crinkle when she grins, hears her raspy laugh, watches her face contort as she breaks open in her arms. 

Anxiety because she actually _misses_ Clarke for the short duration of those two days and can’t wait to see her again. What the literal fuck is that? She misses her? She feels like a puppy with abandonment issues. Because they’ve had several conversations and two decidedly non-platonic interactions, but she still feels like there are so many things she doesn’t know about her. And she definitely doesn’t know what _they_ are, if anything. 

She knows Clarke is open to the fucking aspect of whatever this is, but she doesn’t know if it extends beyond that. She doesn’t know if she _wants_ it to extend beyond that, but some self-punishing urge in her gut keeps bringing it up. She knows her own feelings probably (definitely) encompass more than just sex, but that’s not for lack of repressive trying. 

Part of her wants to keep those other emotions at bay for as long as possible, and just enjoy the physicality. She doesn’t want to address it with Clarke and get soul-crushingly rejected. Or … it might even be worse if Clarke doesn’t reject her. What the fuck is she supposed to do if Clarke implies an emotional commitment? She is _not_ prepared for that. 

And maybe the worst part of this – that yearning she had before, when she was a distant admirer and lived in explicit fantasies, to touch, to have, to be close to Clarke – yeah, that’s gotten a thousand times worse. Since they _consummated_ (Lexa feels like she’s in a Victorian romance novel whenever she uses that word in her head) whatever shit they have, that urge has taken over her higher brain functions. 

It’s like there’s a relentless pull in her chest and gut to go to her, be _near_ her. Like Clarke is at the center of a whirlpool and Lexa is drawn inexorably towards her, spiraling down. 

She is once again reminded of how much she hates being out of control of her own body and emotions. One of those things, however, can be managed and simplified more easily than the other. 

So when Clarke, Raven, and Octavia join them for lunch on Monday and Tuesday, Lexa chooses to focus on how Clarke’s ass looks in those capris, and not the expanding balloon of happiness in her chest. Less complicated that way. 

“Who’s coming to watch me annihilate some bitches on the field this afternoon?” Octavia calls out down the table, leaning over to peer at everyone. 

Lincoln points at all of them. “Attendance is mandatory,” he says firmly. “I _know_ none of you have prior obligations. Because you’re all losers and I love you.” He grins. 

Tris and Art look positively overjoyed to have been included. “I’ll be there, O,” Art says excitedly, and blushes when Octavia beams at him. Lexa hears Luna, Nyko, and Anya give their affirmatives, too. 

Lexa looks at Clarke. “You going?” she asks. Not like she cares. Not even a little. 

Clarke smirks. “Non-negotiable. It’s a best-friends requirement.” Her smile grows warmer. “It’s actually a lot of fun. Bloody, bitter school rivalries, enthusiastic shouting,” she cocks an eyebrow, “athletic girls in short shorts. You should come.” 

Lexa can’t suppress a half-smile. “And you’ve convinced me.” 

“That was easy. Almost like I know your weaknesses.” 

“It’s a carefully-calibrated appearance. You only know what I want you to know.” 

“You clearly want me to know a fuck-ton, then.” 

And then there’s this. Flirting, in-person or over text, has become somewhat of a constant with them. Clarke is usually the initiator, but of course Lexa has to respond, because how can she not? She likes it, if she’s being honest (but why start now?). It makes her blood move a little quicker, her smile a little looser. She likes it even more like this, where she can see Clarke’s challenging grin and glittering eyes. 

And it feels strangely … comfortable. Familiar and easy in a way that doesn’t make a ton of sense, considering how little time they’ve spent actually talking. 

Lexa can’t help but laugh, and Clarke’s smile is blinding. When she glances down the table, she’s met with the amused, crooked smirks of Lincoln, Anya, Octavia and Raven, who have quite obviously been watching them. Lexa reddens and coughs uncomfortably. Those fuckers. 

She sits impatiently through her last two classes after lunch, taking quick, distracted notes on electron orbitals and Emily Bronte (Lexa is _not_ a fan), and then walks out of Mr. Koffman’s room with Clarke by her side. 

She tries to ignore how satisfying this simple act is, just walking down the school hallway with her. They haven’t really spent time together in public, and it feels both deeply comfortable and surreally unfamiliar. Clarke bumps shoulders with her, soft little smile on her face, and Lexa is once again subjected to the inconvenient sensation of her internal organs puddling. 

A huge swath of students is flowing towards the field, and they insert themselves into the crowd, Clarke grasping Lexa’s hand lightly (there goes her spleen) so they don’t get separated. They walk out onto the fresh grass, moving towards the bleachers, and Lexa sees Octavia warming up with her teammates in dark green jerseys, passing a ball to another girl with a focused, determined look on her face. The look dissolves when Clarke cups her hands around her mouth and yells, “Octavia for President!” 

Octavia grins at her and does a little flourishing bow, before her expression shutters again. Lexa knows this is important to her. Not just from talking to Lincoln, but recognizing that Octavia is a person who devotes her passion to a few select things, and devotes it wholeheartedly. She subscribes to Lexa’s same “no half-assing” ideology, Lexa supposes. 

They find their group spread out on one of the lower bleacher rows, Raven sitting close to Anya and waving to them. She sees a lot of Octavia’s other friends too, noticing Bellamy and Jasper sitting together and laughing. She thinks she catches Finn’s gaze on them, heavy and dark before he turns away, but she doesn’t give a fuck either way. 

She sits down next to Clarke, shrugging her backpack off and surveying the field, and then sends a quick text to Aden, telling him where she is and asking what he wants for dinner. 

“This is the first match of the season. It’s gonna be _so_ brutal,” Clarke says, sounding delighted. “How much do you know about soccer?” 

“Players. Ball. Goal.” 

“And my first impression is correct – you’re destined to become an ESPN commentator.” Clarke points at the field. “So, eleven players from each team on the field. Octavia is a right mid-fielder, so she’s gonna try to move the ball down the field for the forwards to shoot. They play for two 45-minute halves.” She shrugs. “Basics.” 

Lexa is impressed. “You come to a lot of these?” 

“O’s been playing for the past three years, so, yeah. Like I said, non-negotiable.” 

When the game actually starts, with Azgeda’s light blue players gaining possession first, Clarke keeps up a helpful running commentary for Lexa’s benefit (which Lexa also selfishly appreciates because of the proximity it requires). She is intense and absorbed, eyes only moving off the field to check if Lexa’s understanding a concept, and she’s patient and thorough when Lexa asks a follow-up question. Lexa can tell when she doesn’t approve or is tense about a play, because her hands turn to fists on her knees. 

There’s a moment in the beginning where one of Azgeda’s players passes the ball in a long streak down the field, landing close to Arcadia’s goal, and Lexa holds her breath until Clarke bellows, “Offsides, motherfucker!” and one of the refs holds up a flag, stopping the play. 

A parent in the front row of the bleachers turns around to glare at them, and Clarke just waves at her and smiles charmingly. Lexa can’t believe that she’s attracted to Clarke roaring out curses, but she’s almost done being surprised by the unexpected ways Clarke is appealing to her. Almost. 

Thirty minutes in, and Lexa is surprised to find that she’s fully enjoying this. Octavia is wonderful. She possesses a grace and agility on the field that Lexa couldn’t have appreciated in their daily interactions. She’s quick and fierce, unerringly accurate in her passes, and not afraid to physically grapple with Azgeda’s players. Lexa’s surprised at how big the crowd is too. She would’ve guessed football would draw this kind of student population, but everyone around them is clearly engrossed in the game and not afraid to yell their appreciation. 

Despite Lexa’s enjoyment of exercise, the idea of team sports never really interested her. Something about the isolation and self-sufficiency of running and boxing was much more attractive. She likes doing her work alone or with another partner. But this game – it actually looks fun. And the seamless motion of the teams, the way they communicate with each other and work as one organism instead of individuals, it’s drawing Lexa in.

She notices one of Azgeda’s players is especially active on the field. She’s a shorter, aggressive brunette that Clarke refers to as “Ontari twat-face” multiple times, so Lexa assumes they’re familiar with her. There’s a tense moment close to half-time, where a blonde player on their team (Harper, Lexa’s pretty sure) receives a pass and Ontari moves to intercept immediately, sliding on the grass and hitting both her and the ball in an audible collision. 

Clarke and Lincoln are on their feet, shouting furiously. “What is that shit, ref?” Clarke is yelling. “Get her off the field! That’s a fucking dirty foul!” Lincoln is clearly in agreement. 

Ontari receives a yellow card, which Clarke scoffs at, fuming, and play resumes. The first score of the match comes just ten minutes later, assisted by Octavia. She manages a beautiful pass from the far side of the field, landing outside the penalty area in front of Monroe, who sends it flying into the right upper corner of the goal to thunderous shouts and applause. 

Clarke is beside herself, jumping up and down and grasping Lexa’s shoulders in excitement. She embraces Lexa in a quick, violent hug and Lexa can barely inhale before she’s back to her own space. Lexa can feel her body tingling where Clarke touched her. 

After half-time, during which Clarke angles towards her, gushing to Lexa about Arcadia’s strategies and how Octavia is implementing them, Azgeda scores once (to Clarke’s crushing disappointment), and the score is tied. Lexa leans forward, hands gripping her own knees and captivated despite herself as the game winds down. 

With eight minutes left, Harper arcs a corner kick into the mass of players outside of Azgeda’s goalie box, and Fox manages to head it into the goal. The bleachers erupt with enthusiastic shouts, Clarke yelling herself hoarse. Lexa is amazed to realize she’s cheering along with them, as thrilled as everyone else with the game’s conclusion. 

After it’s over, everyone travels down to the field, Lincoln picking Octavia up and kissing her sweaty cheek. 

“You were a fucking warrior, O,” Clarke says happily. 

“Yeah,” Lexa says, nodding. “You were a beast, Blake.” 

Octavia grins at her, and Lexa feels a strange sensation of belonging, of being welcomed into a new unit. Clarke gives her a soft smile and tangles their fingers together when they’re behind the group, and the feeling intensifies. 

The magnet inside her chest, the one that tugs and won’t be satisfied until Clarke is on top of her, gives an especially powerful surge at the thought of them separating. Lexa opens her mouth to invite Clarke over for dinner, bowing to its pressure, and – snaps it shut. No. She’s not ready for that. To have Clarke in her house, in her smaller, modest, occasionally grungy home, being awkwardly vetted by her little brother? Maybe another time. 

Anya finds her and gestures to her car, asking what they’re having for dinner. Lexa feels like any words she says are going to be an inadequate goodbye (and judging by Clarke’s gaze directed at her mouth, she’s having similar thoughts), but settles for squeezing her hand before leaving with Anya. 

She felt so _close_ to Clarke over the past few hours, like they were in a bubble in the middle of the crowded bleachers. Sharing space and air and emotional fluctuations, and seeing an entirely different side of her. She never would have called Clarke for such a strong sports fan, and found her violent fervor both adorable and attractive. 

Clarke was _so_ attentive, too, her focus switching only from the game to Lexa. Making sure she was included and understood what was going on, grounding her with little affectionate touches. Whatever that was, it certainly didn’t feel like the budding of a relationship based solely around fucking. 

Lexa grins to herself while making chicken curry later that evening (per Aden’s request), and feels both better and worse about the situation.


	4. Chapter 4

**_Clarke:_** _i’ve heard good things about the stalls in the bathroom near the staff lounge. great reviews on yelp_  

Lexa grins down at her phone, half in disbelief. It’s been a few days since the game, and over a week since the art studio, and Clarke is clearly tired of flirting and innocent touches.   

Not that Lexa can blame her – spending time constantly with Clarke and not being able to touch her like she wants to – it’s an exquisite kind of torture. One that leads to Lexa jerking off nearly every night, thoughts of how it felt to be inside her overcoming her when she’s trying to sleep. 

She wasn’t sure how to initiate something more, especially as they hadn’t really seen each other outside of school and were rarely alone. And, honestly, part of her didn’t want to try, wanted to keep up a pretense of detachment and see if Clarke would take that extra step. Apparently Clarke has solved that little problem by directly propositioning her. 

 **_Lexa:_ ** _oh? you should know I’m expecting a napkin attendant, harpist, and bottle of Crystal gently chilled_

**_Clarke:_ ** _how about penis graffiti, the smell of stale urine, and me_

**_Lexa:_ ** _yup, I’m in_

**_Clarke:_ ** _way to play hard to get. meet you there in 15_

Lexa skirts around the cafeteria, hearing a rumble of muted noise through the open doorway, and heads to the bathroom Clarke specified. She’s barely made it inside before Clarke pushes her against the closed door, arms braced against the wood and bracketing her head. 

“Fancy meeting you here,” Clarke says, with a wolfish smile. Lexa shivers under it. 

“Total coincidence,” Lexa replies, keeping her voice steady. When Clarke makes no move, Lexa raises an eyebrow. “So, we gonna make out, or did you just bring me in here to teach me how to sharpie a dick onto a bathroom stall?” 

Clarke’s grin gets wider, and she angles their bodies closer, pressing into Lexa. She does it slowly, increasing pressure from their legs to their chests, like they’re folding into each other. Their faces move closer at a glacial pace, until Lexa gets impatient and reaches up to cup Clarke’s cheek, pulling them together. When they meet, Lexa eagerly opens her mouth under soft lips, and sighs in utter relief, like she’s able to fully inflate her lungs for the first time in a week. She pulls the other girl closer and sinks into her. Clarke feels like home. 

And on that panic-inducing note, Lexa stops thinking. 

She focuses on her senses, on that particular taste and smell of Clarke, on the air passing between them, on the increasing warmth of their bodies. She focuses on how Clarke’s breathing changes when Lexa sucks on her lower lip, when she rubs a thumb along the hip bone under her shirt. She feels Clarke’s tongue reach out and opens up to meet her, twisting around each other in a slick dance. 

Lexa is moving a hand to stroke the swell of Clarke’s ass when the other girl snakes a hand into Lexa’s hair and tugs, softly at first, fingernails scraping gently against her scalp. Lexa lets out an unintentional whimper and Clarke pulls back, eyes shining. 

“You really like that, don’t you?” she whispers. “That _little_ bit of pain.” 

Lexa’s face and stomach flush equally, and she lowers her eyes to stare at the tiled floor, embarrassed. “Certainly seems that way,” she mumbles. 

Clarke puts a finger under Lexa’s chin, gently guiding her head up, and Lexa sees her face is full of tenderness and, under it, something darker, calculating and avid. Her gut coils at that, at the promise in that look. 

“I’m not complaining over here,” Clarke says quietly. “Just something to keep in mind, Lex.” 

She knows her eyes are wide and her jaw is slack, and she _really_ has no idea how to respond to that. What exactly are they talking about? Clarke steps back before she can try to formulate an answer, her previously dangerous smile turning warm and secretive. 

“So, my mom is out of town tomorrow,” she says, reaching out to absentmindedly play with the hem of Lexa’s shirt. 

Lexa snaps her mouth shut. “And you’re telling me because … you want to have Tris and Anya over to play a rousing game of Monopoly?” 

Clarke quirks an eyebrow. “Well, I kinda thought we could fuck.” 

Lexa barks out a laugh before she can stop herself, and Clarke looks elated at the sound. “I’m not sure if I should be offended,” she says, but her mock-affront is offset by how wide her grin is. “I mean, guys don’t typically laugh when I invite them over for sex, but maybe girls are different.” 

Lexa rolls her eyes and leans nonchalantly back against the door. “I was just shocked at how romantic you can be.” 

Clarke bends forward, hands on Lexa’s hips as lips graze her neck. “Stick around,” she murmurs, and Lexa shivers. 

She drops one more soft kiss onto Lexa’s mouth before opening the door. “You and me, Woods,” she says, turning around in the doorway to point at Lexa, Cheshire grin. “It is _on._ ” 

Suddenly tomorrow feels like it’s interminably far away and Lexa can’t fucking _wait_.  

*** 

Lexa wakes up on Saturday morning and lays still for a second, excitement already fluttering in her gut. She shivers, imagining Clarke’s bed. And naked. And together. 

She pushes herself out of bed because those thoughts will lead to nothing productive, and checks the clock. It’s early enough that she knows her mom and Aden won’t be up for a few hours, so she throws on her running gear and stretches in front of the house. It’s October now, and there’s the slightest chill in the California air, prickling across Lexa’s skin. She usually appreciates Anaheim’s constantly warm weather, but she likes that sweet, rare sharpness of cool, too. 

She shoots out on the sidewalk after a few minutes, already jittery with nervous energy. She barely paces herself, starting a punishing speed almost immediately. She focuses on her toes hitting the front of her shoes at every step and steadying her breathing, relishing how the sweat beads and cools on her arms. 

She does a few miles, pushing herself, and takes a long, hot shower when she gets home. Her hand starts creeping lower of its own accord in the shower, but Lexa, for whatever reason, stops herself. She can wait a few hours, goddamnit.

She goes into the kitchen, hair wet and curling, to start breakfast. She gets the ingredients out of the fridge and starts beating the eggs, slicing strawberries, and cutting pieces off the fresh loaf of bread their mom brought home yesterday. Aden staggers out mid-morning and their mom follows soon after, smiling tiredly and kissing Lexa on the head when she sees the spread of cinnamon French toast and fruit. 

Lexa and Aden manage to convince their mom to spend part of her day off being callously destroyed via Playstation, all of them laughing at the poor woman’s inability to aim a virtual gun. Or work the controller at all. Lexa takes pity on her and bodily strikes the controller from Aden’s hands as he’s about to knock her out of the game again. 

While Lexa and Aden continue to mercilessly frag the crap out of each other, their mom stretches on the couch contentedly, reading glasses perched on her nose, book in hand, glass of red wine on the table once 5pm rolls around. Lexa glances periodically at her, enjoying the sight of her relaxing. She knows that she consistently works her ass off, that she’s been working her ass off since Aden’s dad fucked off. 

Audrey can be a little inattentive at times, but Lexa doesn’t blame her at all. Having two unexpected children in her 20s and being suddenly thrust into the role of single mom (twice), means she’s given up most of her life just to support them. 

If Lexa sometimes selfishly wishes for a mom who could be there for her more often, who would make them dinner and hug them when they come home, listen to them instead of collapsing into bed at 11 at night – well, she just thinks about her mom dealing with raw meat and the staff and customers at Albertson’s for hours every day, all for them. And then she focuses on the sensation of her steel-toed boots meeting the nads of the two men who abandoned them. 

Clarke texts her, offering to come pick her up around 6pm, knowing she doesn’t have a car. Lexa texts her back with an unconscious grin lighting up her face. When she tells her mom she’s staying at a friend’s for the night, her mom arches a perfectly unconvinced eyebrow and waves her off. And that’s something that Lexa would probably miss if she did have a more present mom. A positive outcome from maternal distance is a certain amount of independence and self-sufficiency, and Lexa loves her ability to do almost anything (within reason). 

Lexa is waiting at the curb when Clarke pulls up in her SUV. She quickly shoulders her backpack and climbs in. She’s tense and self-conscious, seeing Clarke in the middle of her own dilapidated neighborhood. She gestures at them to leave, not wanting to give her a window of time to examine their surroundings, and knows it was too brusque when Clarke shoots her a concerned look. 

She relaxes as they get on Broadway, Clarke rapping enthusiastically along to Kendrick Lamar. Lexa grins at her gesticulations – she really should’ve known Clarke was the type of person to enact a goddamn dramatic scene when listening to music. But she likes it. 

She joins in when Tinashe starts playing, both of them yelling into the car’s ceiling and bouncing with the bass. She’s still feeling that residual happiness when they pull into Clarke’s garage and she’s confronted with the reality of Clarke’s home. It’s not as large as Octavia’s, but by no stretch of the imagination is it modest. It’s a two-story, Tuscan-style home, warm colors and terra cotta and wide windows. Lexa guesses it’s at least 3000 square feet. 

Clarke leads her into a white and granite-surfaced kitchen, bronze lights hanging low, wicker chairs at the center island. She kicks her shoes off and dumps her bag on the island unconcernedly, opening the fridge door and peering in. She turns to ask Lexa something and stops, seeing her face. 

“You okay, Lex?” she asks, brow wrinkling. 

Lexa shifts and swallows. “Yeah,” she says, shaking her head and chastising herself. She clears her throat and gestures around her. “It’s a really nice place.” 

“Thanks,” Clarke responds, but she’s still frowning at her. She cocks her head. “You sure nothing’s wrong?” 

Lexa shucks her shoes off and walks forward, dropping her backpack into one of the chairs and mentally pushing her self-conscious discomfort down. Tonight shouldn’t be about her economic insecurities. “Yeah, definitely.” 

Clarke stares at her suspiciously for one more moment before nodding. “Okay.” She bends over to look in the fridge again. “You want a drink? Water, wine, beer – I think my mom has a stash of liquor somewhere if you wanted something stronger?” 

Lexa shakes her head. “Beer’s good.” 

Clarke grabs two bottles and pops the tops off, taking a long swig. She leans against the counter, casually checking Lexa out as she sips at hers. Lexa arches an eyebrow at her, witnessing it. 

“You look good,” Clarke says, completely unashamed. Lexa suppresses a smile and examines her own jeans and plaid button-up. 

“I wear this shit every day.” 

“You look good every day.” Lexa’s eyebrow remains raised at that. “Hey, you asked for romance,” Clarke says, grinning. “And now, I’m going to court you. With cheesy compliments and inexpensive take-out.” 

Lexa smiles too, feeling the welcome warmth of the beer in her chest as she takes a larger sip. 

“So, pizza or Chinese?” Clarke asks, walking past Lexa into the living room. She plops down onto one of the huge leather couches, propping her feet up on the coffee table in front of them. Lexa follows her and sits on the other side, arm coming up to drape along the back of the couch. 

“Chinese is good enough for this cheap date,” Lexa says, and then regrets it almost immediately, cringing at the word choice. 

Clarke doesn’t blink, though, just nodding and pulling out her phone. She spends a few minutes on what Lexa assumes is a food delivery app, and then slips the phone back into her pocket, tilting the beer bottle to drink deep. 

Lexa sees a colorful abstract painting on the wall to their right and is reminded of Clarke’s works. “How’d you start painting?” Lexa asks, gripping her own bottle tightly and taking a gulp to disguise her slight nervousness. Ugh, _fuck_ this nerves shit. What is she, twelve? 

Clarke swivels around, shifting her legs so that her feet land on Lexa’s lap, and grins cheekily when Lexa gives her a look. “My dad, actually.” Lexa hears a change in her voice and sees Clarke look down at her own hands, peeling the beer label. “He saw how much I loved it when I was like seven and in summer camp. He just kept pushing me, buying me supplies and canvases, telling me to keep practicing.” 

Lexa watches her closely, because there’s a shift in the atmosphere and she’s not sure why. “He must be proud of you,” she says slowly. 

Clarke meets her eyes briefly, smiling weakly. “He passed away a few years ago, actually.” 

Oh. Oh, _shit._  

“Shit, Clarke,” Lexa says, internally slapping herself across the face. She sees grief, deep and still violent, flash across Clarke’s face and aches for her. She wants to somehow absorb that pain, take it away from her, because her heart is breaking just from the look in Clarke’s eyes. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t know. I shouldn’t have brought it up.” 

Clarke shakes her head. “No, it’s okay.” She meets Lexa’s gaze directly. “It’s easier to talk about it now. He, uh, he got sick in my freshman year. Prostate cancer. He was on chemo and radiation for about six months before …” Her voice trails off. “It was hard, yeah,” she says, trying another smile. “I was out of school for awhile.” 

Lexa thinks back and does actually vaguely remember Clarke’s absence and subsequent return, the other girl looking paler and gaunter when she came back. She mentally slaps herself again for her stupidity. 

“It’s …” Lexa sees Clarke glance to the side, brow furrowed as if she’s deciding something, and then looks back at her with a determined expression. “It was really hard for me and my mom. Dad was kind of our connecting line – he got both of us better than we got each other. And then, honestly,” she scrunches her face up in what Lexa thinks is a grimace of shame, “I think I partly blamed her. She’s a doctor, a surgeon working at Anaheim General. And I thought she should’ve been able to save him.” She shrugs self-deprecatingly. “Grief does some shitty things to people.” 

Lexa puts a comforting hand on Clarke’s shin in her lap, trying to rub reassuring circles with her thumb. “I’m sorry, Clarke,” she says softly. “I’m sorry you and your mom had to go through that.” 

“I’m not particularly pleased with it, myself,” Clarke says, trying to smile. She gestures aimlessly, “But you know, all those platitudes about being stronger for slogging through huge piles of shit. Et cetera.” She takes a long pull from her beer. “And I think about him whenever I paint.” She smiles and it’s easier, more genuine. “He was an architect, you know. He got a commission for a kids’ playground when I was twelve, and convinced me to paint a mural for one of the walls in it. It’s still there, and I fucking cringe every time I see it,” she says, laughing. “It’s god-awful shite.” 

Lexa wraps her hands around one of Clarke’s sock-clothed feet and starts massaging it, trying to communicate reassurance through her motions. Clarke’s eyebrows raise and her face turns appreciative, warm grin at Lexa. 

“I highly doubt that, even with your twelve year-old talents,” Lexa says, running her thumb along Clarke’s arch with one hand and taking a sip of her beer with the other. “I bet you were a little prodigy. I bet all of the kids in your summer camp hated your art genius ass.” 

Clarke scoffs. “No one hates my ass. Have you seen it?” 

“No, I’ve never looked. Is it especially attractive?” 

Clarke pushes playfully at Lexa’s arm with one of her feet. “Like you don’t drool over it every goddamn day. The only thing you’re more enamored with are my tits.” 

“Unfounded accusation.” 

Clarke cocks her head, gazing at Lexa with undisguised affection. Lexa feels her face heat up under the look, and focuses on kneading Clarke’s feet. Clarke lets out a grateful groan. “I can’t really claim the higher moral ground in this. I’ve been salivating over your jawline and arms for the better part of the year.” 

Lexa snaps her head up at that, half-smiling in disbelief. “Seriously?” 

Clarke takes another long drink of her beer. “I painted you, Lexa. I put your face and body on my canvases. Do you really need to question my level of stalkerish admiration?” 

Lexa feels her chest heat with pleased embarrassment. “So, you gonna tell me who my doppelganger is? What’s this chick’s story?” 

Clarke looks pensive for a moment. “I know she’s a leader of her people.” 

“Like a queen? President?” 

“No, nothing like that – too passive. She’s a warrior, a diplomat, a politician, whatever she needs to be. She’s too young to have the weight she has on her shoulders, but that doesn’t lessen it. And she’s lonely and haunted from all of that.” She takes a contemplative sip of her beer. “She’s killed and sent her people off to die, and she feels every one of those deaths.” 

Lexa stares at her. She feels a strange pull in her gut, a familiarity and recognition when Clarke is talking. She’s not sure if it’s because she connects to Clarke’s description in some small but important ways, or if the recognition comes from somewhere else. She swallows hard. “Does she have anyone?” 

Clarke shrugs. “I think she _did_. But her world is violent, and I think whoever she had on her side died.” 

“Jesus, Clarke,” Lexa says, hands momentarily stilled. 

Clarke shakes her head, as if waking up. “Shit, I know,” she says, laughing self-consciously. “Way to create the most depressing character ever, Clarke. All I need to do now is give her unconditional love and then rip it away mercilessly.” She tilts her head. “Maybe that should be my next work.” 

“Have I done something to make you loathe me?” Lexa asks, only partly jokingly. She keeps massaging the balls of Clarke’s feet. “So that you need to take your unending hatred out on a fictional me?” 

Clarke’s smile is knowing and mischievous. “I don’t really think fucking in the school art room necessarily gives the impression of unending hatred.” 

Lexa inclines her head, smiling. “Point.” 

They share a look for a long moment, the air thickening with potential and expectation. Lexa allows it to build, and then lets it go. They have time tonight. She takes a long sip of her almost-empty bottle. 

“Are you working on anything else right now?” she asks after swallowing. 

Clarke shakes her head, smiling ruefully. “She’s taking up so much headspace right now, I can’t even try to paint anything else.” She looks off into the distance, eyes turning remote and reflective. “I think she’s gonna be a whole series of paintings, maybe an entire story.” 

The doorbell rings suddenly and they both jump, looking at each other and grinning sheepishly. Clarke extricates her feet from Lexa’s lap and pads towards the front door. Lexa hears her thanking the delivery guy and taking the Chinese food. She comes back in, puts the plastic bag down on the coffee table and starts taking the styrofoam containers out. 

Lexa finishes her beer and gestures towards the kitchen. “You want another one?” 

Clarke nods, opening one of the boxes to a billow of steam. When Lexa gets back with two fresh beers and plates, they sit back on the couch with heaping piles of food and chopsticks, and eat while chatting and laughing. 

Lexa is amazed at how comfortable it is. Even with the underlying current of longing and anticipation, of both of them knowing where this is leading, everything feels effortless and safe. She forgets about her previous discomfort with Clarke’s wealth, forgets about the rest of the world outside them. 

She finds herself relaxing in a way she only does with her closest friends. She meets Clarke’s brilliantly sky-blue eyes and her chest warms with connection and understanding. She feels like they _know_ each other, that they’ve known each other forever. And there’s nothing rational about that, because there are still so many gaps in her knowledge of Clarke. But that feeling persists. 

This is one of the first times they’ve been able to spend time together alone, and she finds she doesn’t want it to end. When she thought of this night, she didn’t imagine this. This easy intimacy, domesticity – sitting on a couch and talking about everything and nothing. She can’t help but touch Clarke in little, constant ways, because that compulsion for proximity never leaves, but it feels more sustaining than urgent. 

But those little brushes of contact build, climb to an inevitability, to the manifestation of what Lexa feels in her gut and thighs. So when they put their plates down and Clarke shifts over to her, swinging a leg over her hips to straddle her, it feels like a totally natural progression. The two beers are making everything _just_ a little fuzzy, her skin hot and prickling. 

Clarke looks down at her, cupping her face and caressing her tenderly, and Lexa sinks into her. They gaze at each other for a long moment, reading each other’s faces, and it doesn’t feel casual or friendly. It feels terrifyingly all-encompassing. It feels like everything. 

Clarke eventually leans in, kissing Lexa slowly and thoroughly, taking her time, using the lingering, deliberate slide of her lips to express things they’re not ready to say yet. Lexa’s hands rest on her upper thighs, Clarke’s holding the sides of her face, and they just melt into each other. Clarke pulls back and tilts her head, angling back in and deepening the kiss. 

Lexa lifts her hips instinctively when she feels the first touch of Clarke’s tongue, low groan leaving her when Clarke grinds back down. She leans back, biting her bottom lip as she looks at Lexa, and rolls her hips again, her mouth dropping open at the contact. 

Lexa feels a drop of heat land between her thighs and leans forward, not content with passivity while Clarke is doing _that_ , and moves one of her hands underneath Clarke’s shirt. She grazes over her stomach and reaches up, finding Clarke’s bra and cupping one full breast. Clarke gasps as Lexa flexes her fingers, finds a nipple through fabric and gently squeezes it. 

Lexa moves forward to kiss her again and Clarke puts a hand on her chest, reaching down to grasp the wrist currently under her own shirt. She gets off Lexa and stands up, sliding a hand down to tangle in hers and leading them out of the living room. 

Lexa goes willingly, gaze not leaving the sway of Clarke’s backside until she starts climbing the staircase. Her eyes land on a slanting series of photographs lining the wall next to the stairs, and stop on the image of a younger Clarke, wrapped around a man with broad shoulders, sandy hair, startling blue eyes, and a wide, easy smile. He has a hand on the top of Clarke’s head, looking down at her with pure adoration. She feels a simultaneous spread of warmth cover her at his look, and a twist in her heart at the thought of Clarke going through his loss. 

She catches a glimpse of the other successive pictures as they pad softly up, sees a wedding photo, an infant Clarke swaddled in her mom’s arms at the hospital, and the three Griffins adopting triumphant poses on a rocky ledge, mountainous expanse behind them. That twist in her heart deepens, carving a path through her chest. She feels a huge, overwhelming wave of protectiveness, startling in its rapidity. 

She watches Clarke climb the stairs in front of her, sees the well of pain and grief in her eyes from earlier, and is suddenly and completely sure – she will do everything in her power to never hurt this girl. She will try her very fucking best to shield her, from the world, from terrible, shitty people, from Lexa’s own psychological crap. Clarke deserves nothing less. 

Clarke reaches the landing and opens the first door on the right, stepping inside and flicking on a lamp, watching as Lexa takes in her bedroom. It’s warm and colorful, strewn with paint brushes and tubes, sketchbooks, a blank canvas next to the window. The walls are a bold teal, the unmade bed in the corner covered with a soft, white comforter. There are several paintings and photographs around the room – a hyper-detailed black and white sketch on one wall, a monochromatic, broad-stroked profile of a girl on the other. 

The painting above her bed is a riot of color and inexact strokes, rolling hills and sky, branches of the trees reaching up like fingers. Lexa makes a note to ask Clarke about it later, but then promptly loses her train of thought as Clarke steps forward, eyes focused and dark. 

The other girl shuts the door, pressing Lexa into it and moving in close. She maintains eye contact as she reaches forward, grasping the bottom of Lexa’s shirt and lifting it up. Lexa raises her arms and lets Clarke slip it off, watching as her eyes move heatedly over Lexa’s form. They start removing each other’s clothing, drinking in every new inch of revealed skin. 

Clarke’s shirt is next, followed by her bra. Lexa shudders when a shirtless Clarke removes her bra, eyes wide as she gently traces a line onto her bare breast. 

“Girls,” Clarke mutters approvingly, staring at her chest. 

Lexa laughs weakly, gasping and arching into her when she feels the warm pull of Clarke’s mouth, lips closing around her nipple. Clarke scrapes her teeth against the side of one breast and palms the other, thumb rubbing against the peak of a stiffening nipple and making Lexa’s hips tilt forward, ache growing exponentially between her thighs. 

Clarke releases her breasts after several long, agonizing moments and lets fingernails rake down her abdomen, slipping inside the waistband of her jeans. When she unbuttons them and slowly peels them down Lexa’s legs, kneeling at her feet, Lexa inhales sharply. 

“Fuck,” she whispers, eyes wide at the sight of Clarke on her knees before her, lips parted and hungry. “You –” she utters, before snapping her mouth shut. 

Clarke looks up at her curiously. “What?” she whispers. 

Lexa shakes her head mutely, unwilling to say any more. Clarke sits back on her heels, watching Lexa patiently. “Tell me,” she murmurs. 

Lexa breathes through her nose, blinking hard. “I imagined this – just like this.” And she’s had so many fantasies of this girl she can barely remember all of them, but this particular one stayed with her. She flashes back to one of her first fantasies, that first day of school when Clarke looked so _damn_ good and Lexa couldn’t get her out of her mind. She came that night to this image, the one right in front of her. 

Clarke looks confused for a moment, before her mouth opens in recognition and she bites her lip, hard enough that Lexa can see the force of the indentation. “You touched yourself?” she asks softly. “You touched yourself and thought of me like this? On my knees?” 

Lexa feels a dull flush covering her chest and neck, and nods jerkily. “Clarke …” she starts, but Clarke cuts her off by running a hand up her leg. 

“Lexa,” she exhales, leaning in and kissing her inner thigh. Lexa presses her back and hands against the door behind her, shivering. Clarke moves her hands to her underwear, slipping fingernails inside to scrape against her pelvis before pulling them down. Lexa feels suddenly horribly exposed, physically and emotionally, and her hips hit the door as she tries to move back. 

Clarke stops and looks at her, concerned. “Is this okay?” 

“You don’t have to do this,” Lexa says in a raw whisper. “You don’t have to …” she gestures at them. 

Clarke finishes lowering her panties, dropping them to the side, and gives her an appraising look. “I was planning to use my fingers first, honestly – kind of ease into it. So to speak,” she says, small smirk gracing her face. “But now I want to do this so much more.” She kisses Lexa’s thigh again, inhaling her deeply. “Thinking of you, fucking yourself to this. I want to taste you so badly right now.” 

Lexa fails to suppress the groan rising in her throat and Clarke leans back and makes eye contact. “Okay?” 

“Yes,” she manages to get out. “Fuck, yes.” 

Clarke smiles at her, tender and eager, and bends forward, breath wafting over Lexa’s upper thigh. Lexa’s stomach is twitching as Clarke mouths her hip, teeth scraping over the bone, and then drops another kiss so _close_ to where Lexa needs her. 

“Spread your legs,” Clarke whispers, and Lexa actually, literally almost comes right there. She slaps her hand against the door instead, trying to get control of herself. She widens her stance and holds her breath as she watches Clarke’s mouth descend onto her. 

Lexa cries out when she feels the first tentative swipe of tongue, hot, wet pressure sliding through her. There’s a firmer stroke, running along the entire length of her in a hard, flat line, and her breath is punched out of her. And then Clarke moans into her, a noise of pure pleasure, vibrations running through both of them and Clarke’s fingernails digging into the meat of her thighs. The thought that Clarke is getting off on this too – it’s enough to buckle her knees, sending her slumping against the door. 

Clarke leans back on her heels, looking up at Lexa in a dazed confusion. Her pupils are blown, lips wet and open, and she runs two fingers under her bottom lip and sucks them back into her mouth. Lexa whimpers helplessly because – this is just too fucking _much_. She’s going to die from this girl. Right here. 

“ _Shit_ , Lex,” Clarke whispers in a rough, low voice. “You’re fucking delicious.” She shakes her head as Lexa chokes on air. “I can’t believe I waited so long to do this.” 

Clarke pushes her hips more firmly against the door and bends forward, grasping the back of one of Lexa’s thighs. She lifts it, eyebrows raised, and drapes it over her shoulder. 

“Would this help?” she asks. Lexa nods, and Clarke takes her hands and puts them firmly on her own head, smirking in a hungry way that sends a fresh rush of arousal through her. “Don’t be shy, Lex. I take requests.” 

Where the _fuck_ did this girl come from? 

She lowers her mouth to Lexa again, all hesitancy absent from her next stroke. Lexa is completely gone, the entirety of her being surrendered to the movement of Clarke’s tongue and lips. She fists her hands in Clarke’s hair, gripping hard when she runs her tongue over an especially sensitive area, and Clarke hums appreciatively. 

She starts focusing on her clit, running over and over it, reducing Lexa to a whimpering, shuddering mess in minutes. Her hips are bucking against Clarke’s face, completely involuntarily, and she’s half afraid she’s hurting or suffocating her, but judging by the little moans Clarke herself is making, she doesn’t give a shit. 

The warm, wet suction of Clarke’s mouth is one of the best things Lexa’s ever felt, and she finds that she’s chasing her climax in a shockingly short time. She feels Clarke’s hand sliding up her thigh, reaching the apex, and the other girl looks at her in permission. Lexa gasps out, “Please,” in the highest-pitched, most pathetic whine she’s ever heard come out of her mouth, and she’s not even functioning at a high enough level to be embarrassed. 

When Clarke slides a finger in, Lexa wants to cry at how good it feels, finally having her inside. Clarke adds another finger in the next stroke, slipping in knuckle-deep, and they groan simultaneously. 

“One more,” Lexa gasps, pressing herself into Clarke’s mouth. 

She obliges, pulling out and adding a third finger, and Lexa moans at the sensation of that sweet, aching stretch. 

“Could you – your fingers,” Lexa tries to get out. “Curl them – oh, _fuck_.” 

Clarke drives into her, crooking her fingers, tongue still warm and hard on her clit, and Lexa’s suddenly gone, coming so hard her vision goes black. She hears a broken, gasping sob and only vaguely registers that she’s responsible for it. Her body is shuddering in pleasure, waves of sweetness crashing into her over and over again. All of her muscles go taut, her back arching, her heel digging into the small of Clarke’s back so hard it must be painful. 

When she regains consciousness, moments or hours later, Clarke is still kneeling between her legs, looking up at her with an expression Lexa has trouble decoding – lust and tenderness and a vast _awe_. Her eyes are huge and dark and her mouth is glistening, and even through the watery, near-collapsed state of her muscles, Lexa feels another stir of want. 

Clarke gets to her feet and grasps Lexa’s wrist without another word, tugging her towards the bed. She turns them around so the back of Lexa’s legs hit the mattress, and with a firm push from Clarke’s hand she goes down on her back, shaky legs giving out. She pulls herself further up on the comforter as Clarke follows her, hovering over her on hands and knees, and when she sees the shift in Clarke’s eyes, her stomach clenches violently. 

Clarke’s gaze is scorching and black, like she wants to devour Lexa and doesn’t give a _fuck_ about anything else around them. Lexa feels a strange, heady mixture of fear and desire run through her, because she honestly has _no_ idea what’s going to happen.   

Clarke holds herself a foot over Lexa, running hot eyes up and down her naked body, until she moves her hands to cover Lexa’s. She straddles Lexa’s thigh and clasps her wrists, bringing both of Lexa’s arms above her head, pinning them to the pillow with one firm grip. She snakes her other hand down, drifting over Lexa’s twitching stomach until fingers reach wet heat. Lexa gasps out as Clarke slips over her still-sensitive clit and, without any other warning, pushes inside of her. Lexa lets out a disjointed, surprised moan and arches her back, wrists pushing against Clarke’s restraining grip. 

“ _Jesus_ , Clarke,” she croaks out. “Don’t – don’t stop.” 

The quick driving rhythm Clarke sets up, the way Lexa is completely under her control, the roughness and possessiveness of it – all cause a thrill to course through her. _God_ , she didn’t know how much she wanted this until now. No one’s ever fucked her like this before, with this type of almost selfish abandon. The heel of Clarke’s hand is pressing into her clit with every thrust, and when she bends her fingers, hitting that place inside Lexa that makes her toes curl, she realizes she’s already close to her second orgasm. 

She looks at Clarke through a haze of impending climax and what she sees and feels pushes her over the edge. Clarke’s mouth is open, eyes still black and hooded, exhaling heavily as she grinds down on Lexa’s thigh, heat seeping even through the jeans she’s still wearing. Clarke’s breath hitches as she rubs herself against Lexa unabashedly, still maintaining a hard, fast, driving pace with her fingers, and Lexa breaks apart again with the next thrust. She whimpers, her arms jerking against Clarke’s grip and her hips shooting up, body quaking under the force of it. 

Even through it, she feels Clarke groan and speed up her own rolling motion, trying to reach her own, pressing Lexa into the mattress with her arm and hips. Lexa raises her thigh as much as she can, meeting Clarke’s grinding until the other girl lets out a juddering whimper and goes taut, hips snapping one more time to meet her own peak. 

There’s a moment where they both slump, panting, shivering from the aftershocks. Clarke lets go of her wrists, bracing herself with her arms on either side, and Lexa leaves her own arms above her head, recovering. Her chest is still heaving, adrenaline slowly seeping out and leaving her limp. Clarke raises her head to meet her eyes, and the dark, voracious look is gone (Lexa kind of misses it), replaced by softness and uncertainty. 

“Was that okay?” Clarke asks in a rasping whisper, brow furrowed. “I’m sorry – that was rougher than I had planned.” She shakes her head. “I don’t even know what came over me.” 

“That would be me,” Lexa answers. At Clarke’s surprised look shifting into fond exasperation, “What? You think I was just gonna let that lie there?” She reaches out with a shaky hand to rub a thumb along Clarke’s cheek. “That was _fucking_ amazing. You were wonderful.” She shifts on the bed. “Although my legs might not work for the next few weeks.” 

Clarke’s smile is huge and shining and relieved. Lexa runs a hand along Clarke’s jeans and eyes her still-covered chest. “And I’m deeply offended at the amount of clothing still on your body.” 

Clarke rolls her eyes and climbs off the bed, standing up and meeting Lexa’s gaze. Lexa sees a glint in Clarke’s eyes and the other girl starts making a show out of it, slowly unsnapping her bra and sliding it down her arms. Lexa swallows hard at the sight of her bare chest, and watches greedily as she shimmies out of her jeans, revealing long, smooth legs. She focuses on the white lace panties between her thighs, following Clarke’s motions as she slips her thumbs inside the waistband and begins to slowly, torturously tug them down. 

And then she’s naked, standing in front of her, and Lexa can barely breathe. 

“You’re beautiful,” she whispers. 

Clarke flushes, pleased, and climbs back onto the bed, hair curtaining her face and eyes glittering in the low light. She maneuvers herself over Lexa, who hasn’t moved since Clarke got up, content to lay back and lazily watch. Clarke reaches out deliberately, running a finger between Lexa’s breasts and splaying a hand across her abdomen, fingernails scratching along her stomach. 

Lexa shivers and Clarke lowers herself, legs and hips first falling between Lexa’s legs. The first touch of bare skin, of hips and bellies and breasts pressing together, wrings low moans from both of them. Lexa feels like every inch of her body is raw and sensitive, in tune with Clarke’s warm length, made to respond to her. 

When Clarke props herself up on her hands and arches into her, pressing their hips together and letting out a shuddering exhale, Lexa feels a surge of desire to reciprocate, to make Clarke feel as good as she’s made her. She lunges up and grasps Clarke’s sides, flipping them over with one surging, fluid motion. Clarke gasps with the shift of position as Lexa straddles her, her eyes darkening with excitement as they meet Lexa’s. 

She bends down and kisses her gently, running her hands from Clarke’s lower stomach to her breasts in a slow, dragging motion. She cups Clarke with both hands, filling her hands with soft, supple skin, running her thumbs over stiffening nipples and licking into her mouth. Clarke grasps the top of Lexa’s thighs, gripping them with hard, eager fingertips and bucks her own hips. They both groan at the contact. 

Lexa pulls back and begins sliding down her body, hands following on Clarke’s ribs and sides and then lower, running down her thighs. She ignores how shaky her own legs still are and lets that familiar urgency take over, that desire to touch, to have, to coax out helpless noises and sensations. She doesn’t want to leave Clarke with one clothed, unsatisfying climax tonight. And, at this particular moment, there isn’t anything she wants more than to make Clarke come with her mouth.

She lowers her head, dropping soft kisses and slow wet trails onto her stomach, moving further and further down. She meanders, making detours onto her ribs, above her pelvis, swirling her tongue around her belly button. She takes her sweet time until Clarke is tilting her hips impatiently and breathing hard. Clarke puts a hand on Lexa’s head and pushes pointedly, and Lexa looks up from sucking a mark into Clarke’s hip bone and gives her a grin. 

“Was there something you wanted?” she asks innocently. 

Clarke groans, head landing back on the pillow. “You goddamn tease.” 

Lexa moves her thumb to gently glide down into the small, damp patch of hair between Clarke’s thighs, slipping down just enough to feel how wet she is. Clarke gasps at the skating touch and Lexa groans at the feeling. 

“What do you want?” Lexa whispers into her stomach. “Just tell me.” 

“Fuck – use your mouth,” Clarke says shakily. “I need your mouth on me.” 

Lexa clenches her thighs together, totally ineffectively, at the desperate tone in Clarke’s voice. She settles herself between Clarke’s legs, drawing her thighs around her head and taking one moment (just a small one) to really see her. She rests her head on Clarke’s upper thigh and inhales her scent, musky and tart, and greedily takes in how wet and open she is for her. 

And then she stops pretending she doesn’t want this as much as Clarke and, figuratively and literally, dives right in. She gives her an open-mouthed, filthy kiss, tongue and lips everywhere, taking everything of Clarke she can. Her taste is beautiful, and Lexa can’t get enough. Clarke jerks her hips and moans. 

“ _Lexa,_ ” she whimpers, almost disbelievingly. “Holy fuck – mother – _fuck._ ” 

Lexa almost pulls back to start laughing, but instead directs her pleased chuckle into Clarke, vibrations causing her hips to buck again. She licks a stripe into her, entrance to clit, over and over again, reveling in the accompanying rush of liquid and Clarke’s strangled curses above her. She feels a hand on the back of her head, holding her in place (like she’s going fucking anywhere). 

When she pushes her tongue into Clarke, the other girl lets out an expletive so loud Lexa momentarily worries about the neighbors. She moves her thumb to press into Clarke’s clit and starts licking into her, as hard and deeply as she can. 

“You –” Clarke gasps out. “What the fuck – oh, yeah, _right_ there.” 

And then it’s just a string of nonsensical murmurs and moans, the hand on her head almost clawing at her. Lexa plunges into her wholeheartedly, occasionally pulling back to slide up and down and gather more liquid. She keeps up a consistent pressure on Clarke’s clit, rubbing gentle but firm circles with her thumb. 

It’s not long before Clarke’s thighs are clenching around her head and her hips are angling recklessly into Lexa. 

“ _Shit,_ ” Clarke whispers. “Faster – I – I’m going –” 

Lexa quickens, deepens the pace, feeling Clarke’s muscles go tight and expectant. It takes another few thrusts of her tongue and slippery circles with her thumb before Clarke reaches that peak. She arches off the bed, head pressed into the pillow and mouth wide open. She’s silent when she comes this time, sucking in a breath before she’s shuddering and spilling into Lexa’s mouth. 

Lexa pulls back, tongue flat on her clit to draw it out, so that she can watch her. She’s not missing this – the twist of Clarke’s face when she arches up, how her mouth slowly goes slack with the rest of her body when she comes back down. The hand on Lexa’s head moves to grip the sheets around her, knuckles white and grasping. Until she’s panting against the mattress and Lexa’s head is resting on the soft pillow of her stomach, warm puffs of air skating over Clarke. 

Clarke throws an arm across her eyes as she goes loose, and Lexa slides up her body, wiping off her mouth and chin before collapsing next to her, legs intertwined and hand against her stomach. Clarke moves her forearm away from her face and looks at Lexa, who props herself up with an elbow. 

Lexa’s grinning like an idiot and Clarke laughs at the first glance of her face. 

“You liked that?” Lexa asks, giddy and smiling. She’s light-headed with happiness, multiple orgasms and satisfaction. 

“Hated it,” Clarke responds quickly, clearly trying to suppress a smile. “Worst head ever.” 

Lexa raises an eyebrow, tracing patterns over Clarke’s stomach. “I could practice some more.” 

Clarke shakes her head, laughing. “Fuck, Lex. My toes are literally numb right now.” She reaches out to tuck a strand of hair behind Lexa’s ear. “Hour break, at least.” 

Lexa grasps Clarke’s hand and kisses it, and then, improbably, reddens at the intimacy of the action. She ducks her head down, resting it on Clarke’s chest to hide her face. Clarke starts absentmindedly stroking her hair, and Lexa feels comfort cover her in a wave of warmth. She feels the rise and fall of Clarke’s breathing and unconsciously matches her. 

They stay in a comfortable, exhausted silence for a long moment. Lexa licks her lips, tangled in each other, skin damp and cooling, and tastes Clarke. 

She realizes, with a sharp stab of fear, that she wants to say something. Wants to say, _I really like you_. Or, _let’s be in a committed, monogamous, super gay relationship_. Or, _you make me so afraid of my own emotions I almost resent you_. 

She bites her lip and rolls over, pulling Clarke’s arm with her to snake around her stomach, pressing her back to the other girl’s front. She focuses on the feel of Clarke’s bare breasts against her back and not her own compulsion for emotional word vomit. Lexa opens her mouth and snaps it shut. Twice. 

She sighs in pure relief when Clarke starts talking. 

“I was really nervous about tonight,” she whispers into Lexa’s back. 

Lexa lets out a soft, disbelieving noise. “Really?” 

Clarke nuzzles into Lexa’s shoulder. “Yeah. I wanted everything to go perfectly. I even,” and Lexa feels her mouth curve into a smile against her, “did some internet research.” Lexa laughs and Clarke starts rubbing a gentle circle into Lexa’s hip bone. “But when I was actually doing it, when I was …” there’s an embarrassed pause and then Clarke continues in a stronger voice, “going down on you, I just forgot everything. And then, watching your beautiful face when you came, I just wanted to do it over and over again. As hard and as long as possible.” 

Lexa flushes and shudders involuntarily, feeling a weak tendril of desire even now. “You succeeded. Magnificently.” 

Clarke kisses her upper back, still smiling. “Thanks for all of the cheerleading.” 

“I couldn’t tell you were nervous, Clarke. Not at all.” A beat. “Neither could my vagina.” 

Clarke lets out a surprised huff of laughter, curling tighter against Lexa. She _loves_ that sound, especially the shocked note when it begins. But then Clarke keeps laughing, the sound undulating out of her like a ribbon, and she can feel her stomach shake against her back and the breath against her shoulder. Lexa starts laughing with her the longer it goes on, immersing herself in Clarke’s giddiness, until both of them are giggling and clutching each other and have no idea why they’re still laughing. 

She feels like she’s drunk or high or a pre-pubescent teenager, or all of the above. And it scares her shitless and inundates her with content warmth – both emotions so intense she can’t distinguish between the two. 

The hysterical laughing dies down to errant chuckles, and they slip into a limp, semi-awake silence. After a moment Clarke shifts herself and nudges Lexa’s legs back, and grasps the comforter to pull it over them. Lexa pushes back more firmly into Clarke and melts when her arms tighten around her, her face burying into Lexa’s hair. She is warm and limp and happy, and can’t remember the last time she felt so untroubled, so free and unencumbered.  

Lexa is just nudging into unconsciousness when Clarke sleepily mumbles, “What the fuck is going on with Anya and Raven?”


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I went ahead and added "light d/s dynamics" as a tag because this chapter has more of an overt power play between Clarke and Lexa. Nothing that ventures too far into BDSM territory, but there are definite tones. So, if that's not your thing, you might wanna skip this chapter. Thank you again to everyone who's read, commented, and given kudos! And another special thanks to goodgayegg for her discerning grammar edits and suggestions.

Lexa isn’t the type of person to gradually roll into consciousness, to need time to wake up. She opens her eyes and she’s fully awake. She doesn’t know if it’s inherent or if she’s cultivated this ability because she hates being caught unawares, but whatever the reason, when she wakes up the next morning, she’s abruptly and completely conscious. 

She’s aware of their limbs tangled together, of her mouth pressing into Clarke’s back, of tendrils of hair curling against her face, of the deep, steady breathing of the body pressed to her front. The super naked body. She grins, arms tightening around Clarke’s stomach, kissing the soft skin of her shoulder, inhaling the scent of them together. 

When she tries to move her arm, reaching out past Clarke to grab her phone, Clarke’s fingers close around it, keeping her there. 

“Hi,” Clarke whispers in a raspy morning voice. 

“Hey, you,” Lexa murmurs back, pressing her face closer into Clarke’s hair. “What time is it?” 

Clarke makes a half-hearted grumbling protest but lets go of Lexa, reaching out for her phone on the table. “Early, still,” she answers. “Nine.” 

Lexa lets her hand drift down, ghosting over Clarke’s hip, trailing fingers over the side of her thigh and soft rise of her ass. She rubs soft circles over her belly, not aiming anywhere in particular, just enjoying the freedom to map Clarke’s body. Clarke breathes into her hand, lungs inflating and ribs pressing against her fingertips, and lets out a startled chuckle when Lexa hits a ticklish spot. 

“Can I make you breakfast?” Lexa asks. 

Clarke turns over to look at her, smile slowly widening. She shifts so they’re lying face-to-face, inches away. Lexa can see her hair sticking up in strange directions, her clear blue eyes still heavy-lidded with sleep, the drowsy slackness of her face. Her heart performs a strange acrobatic flop. 

“You wanna make me breakfast?” Clarke repeats, smile easy and languid. “This is my house, Lex. I’m the hostess here.” 

“Yeah,” Lexa agrees, brushing a hair out of Clarke’s face, “But I make such a damn good breakfast. Not to brag, but my pancakes have been described as ‘a divine revelation.’” 

Clarke raises her eyebrows. “That’s a pretty enthusiastic endorsement. A lot to live up to.” 

Lexa attempts to shrug horizontally. “I’m confident in my abilities.” 

Clarke doesn’t even respond to that obvious innuendo, just smiling wider. They extricate themselves from the comfort of Clarke’s bed, throwing on two of Clarke’s soft, big t-shirts and padding downstairs. Lexa can hardly pull her eyes away from the never-ending line of Clarke’s legs under the shirt, just the bottom of her panties and swell of her ass visible. 

She sits down at the island and just watches her walk around the kitchen, getting on her tip-toes to peer into cupboards, bending over to look into the fridge. 

Clarke closes the fridge and turns around to find Lexa staring at her, elbow propping her chin up, unabashedly running her eyes up and down. Clarke cocks her head, smirking. 

“Oh?” she asks. “Is that how this is gonna be?” She shakes her head. “You talk a big game, Woods. But I knew that pancake religion was a crock of shit.” 

Lexa doesn’t say a word, just pushes herself off her seat and walks around to move into Clarke’s space. She sees her face change, shifting from playful smirking to curious expectancy, and finally to dark anticipation, as Lexa presses closer. She puts her hands on the backs of Clarke’s thighs and grasps and lifts, putting her on top of the counter. Clarke inhales sharply, fingers grasping the ledge. 

Lexa drops to her knees and lifts Clarke’s shirt, pressing a kiss to the soft round of her belly and moving to slide her underwear off. Clarke’s breath hitches as she lifts her hips to help her, and Lexa moves between her thighs. 

She doesn’t say a word, or make any superfluous movement, or drag it out at all, just covers Clarke with her mouth. She hears Clarke’s head hit the cupboards as she lets out a gasping moan, as Lexa swirls her tongue through and up and down. Clarke fists her hand in Lexa’s hair and begins rolling her hips, unhesitatingly riding her mouth as Lexa starts focusing on her clit. 

They do eventually eat. They have a few rounds of counter sex, and then a few more in Clarke’s bedroom after they relocate. Lexa comes as hard as she ever has, as Clarke presses her into the mattress with her mouth and digs fingers and little half-moons into her ass. 

They stagger back into the kitchen several hours later and Lexa makes them breakfast with what’s available in Clarke’s kitchen. Clarke groans her undying love for Lexa’s cooking, plowing through three blueberry pancakes and two scrambled eggs. Lexa doesn’t think she’s ever smiled so widely or so frequently, and she doesn’t even care. 

They lie in Clarke’s bed after breakfast, lazy and touching and half-drowsing, eventually properly falling asleep in the early afternoon. They wake up a few hours later, sated and grinning and intertwined, and Lexa doesn’t ever want to leave. She wants to stay in this world they’ve created, this place where she has no responsibilities and time moves differently, where the most pressing matter is how she can make Clarke come again. But Clarke kisses her and says her mom will be home soon, so they both get dressed in a kind of disappointed sadness, feeling the real world encroaching. 

When Clarke drives her back, Lexa leans over the seat and presses her lips to the other girl’s and wishes she could say what she means. But the words get stuck in her throat and she accepts that it’s easier this way right now, so she kisses her hard and goes back into her house. She makes beef burritos for herself, Aden, and Anya, and smiles weakly through it, thinking of Clarke the entire time. 

***

Okay, she knows it’s time. She knows they should talk. She knows they should set up parameters, boundaries, guidelines – whatever the fuck almost-adults in ambiguous relationships do. She knows it’s overdue and not talking makes things unnecessarily complicated. She knows she has stupid, stupidly intense feelings and not acknowledging them doesn’t mean they don’t exist. 

She knows Clarke feels similarly, because sometimes she looks at Lexa like she’s the entire fucking world and it’s terrifying. She knows they’re not acting like friends, or casual acquaintances with benefits – they’re acting like a couple without consciously calling it that. She knows all of this. 

But. But then Clarke sucks on her earlobe or runs fingernails down the side of her torso, slipping under her shirt, and who needs to talk when they can suck on each other’s tongues? 

They can’t keep their hands off each other. They can’t go two hours (barring sleep … and sometimes not) without texting or talking or touching or dry-humping in the bathroom near the staff lounge. It’s become their default make-out destination. Something about its proximity to authority figures makes it much less frequented by their fellow classmates. 

It’s only the week after Clarke’s house and they’re all over each other. Constantly. They sit together during the classes they share now, shifting seats around so they can be closer. Clarke doodles little masterpieces on scraps of notebook paper for Lexa, and Lexa responds with dirty word games and her own obscenely-contorted stick figures. They sit together during lunch, playing footsie under the table and ignoring the increasingly exasperated stares from their friends. 

All of Lexa’s group and Clarke’s closest friends (meaning Octavia, Raven, and Wells) know. They’re not exactly PDA-ing all over the school, but they’re not particularly discreet around their own people. Lexa’s impressed with how quickly Clarke accepts her new sexual identity, and around people they know, is totally comfortable with expressing her affection for Lexa. She catches Finn giving them looks whenever they stand too close to each other, and can’t help the triumphant inward grin every time it happens. 

Anya is, as expected, fucking relentless. She calls them out constantly, eyes Clarke suspiciously like an over-protective mother hen, and adopts this knowing, infuriating grin that Lexa wants to punch off her face. She doesn’t let up until Raven breaks and tells her off one day. 

“Just because you’re not currently getting laid doesn’t mean you get to take a shit on everyone who is,” Raven snaps. And Anya looks so atypically embarrassed and flustered that Lexa laughs for five minutes straight, and loves Raven even more. 

They take advantage of every moment they’re even potentially alone (which, with Lexa’s responsibilities and family and Clarke’s mom and friends, are sadly few and far between), and make out furiously. They haven’t had another chance to fuck, and Lexa feels the absence of it so acutely she forgets she went months and months between sexual partners before. Because, Clarke’s breasts. And ass. And lips and eyelashes and calf muscles. And … what was she saying? 

Even with the uncertainty around their official status, Lexa feels … good. Better than she’s felt for a long time. She knows Clarke’s grin is blinding around her, and she’s occasionally subjected to Octavia or Raven giving her affectionate shoves, looking at her like she’s accomplished something. 

“You done good, Woods,” Raven says one day, out of the blue, and Lexa is both pleased and embarrassed. 

She’s sitting at her kitchen table on Wednesday night, finishing up her homework later than usual because she stayed behind to run at school, when her mom comes through the door in a flurry of groceries, groaning under the weight. Lexa gets up from her Pre-Calculus equations and takes some of the bags, dumping them on the table. 

“Oh, thanks, sweetie,” Audrey says in an exhale. 

They put away the food in a comfortable silence, moving around the kitchen and in each other in a familiar, seamless way. It’s not until she closes the refrigerator door that Lexa realizes her mother is walking around the house in a quick pace, checking the windows and doors. Her eyes are large and she’s paler than usual. 

“Mom?” she asks, concerned. “What’s wrong?” 

“Oh, it’s nothing, really,” Audrey says, waving a hand. She tries to make it sound offhanded but Lexa can see how rapidly her eyes are flitting around the room. 

“Come on,” Lexa says firmly, stepping forward to put a hand on her arm. “It’s me. Tell me.” 

Audrey sighs, running a hand through her brown, wavy hair. “I just saw a group of young men as I was driving home. Screaming at each other and fighting. A few blocks away.” She bites her lip. “I heard gunshots.” 

“Shit,” Lexa says under her breath. She leads her mom over to the table, sitting her down with gentle pressure on her shoulders. She knows it was most likely the escalating turf war between Quint and Derrick. She only hopes it doesn’t affect her own pocket of the neighborhood too much. “Don’t worry – I’m sure the cops were already called.” 

Audrey exhales again into her hands, while Lexa gets her a glass of water. “I know. I just – it seems like it’s gotten worse over the last few years.” She looks imploringly at her daughter. “I didn’t want you and Aden to grow up in a place like this.” 

Lexa sits down next to her, placing the glass in front of her. “This place is just fine, Mom.” She puts a hand over hers. “We’re just fine.” 

Audrey gives her a weak smile. “I know you can take care of yourself, Lex. You’re much more self-sufficient than I was at your age.” 

Lexa shrugs it off. “Yeah, I’ve still got a lot more maturing to do, Mom. No worries in that regard.” She echoes her mom’s faint smile. “I’m just glad I could help with Aden.” 

Audrey’s smile grows softer, more genuine. “You do.” She squeezes her hand. “And don’t think I haven’t noticed what’s going on with you, either.” 

Lexa frowns, confused. “Noticed what?” 

“Hey, I may have a brutal work schedule, but I still pay attention to my children’s attitudes. You seem happier recently, Lex.” Lexa ducks her head, embarrassed. “Is it a girl?” 

Lexa flushes, hard. She didn’t realize she was so goddamn obvious. She had gotten so used to Clarke being around her friends that she probably changed her behavior gradually, but she totally forgot her mom hadn’t even met her. Is it really that noticeable? Is she … happier? 

“Yeah,” she mumbles, into her homework. 

“Good,” her mom says simply. “You deserve it.” She gets up and goes to the fridge, taking out the usual plate of leftovers that Lexa made her from dinner earlier. “I’m going to meet her at some point, yes?” 

Lexa buries her face in her hands. “This is a terrible conversation.” 

“I’m going to take that as a reluctant affirmative.” 

Audrey eats with her as Lexa finishes her homework, thankfully not pushing Lexa for more details about Clarke. Lexa tries and fails not to panic at the thought of Clarke eating dinner with her family, with Aden and his terrible, pathological oversharing. Who knows what kind of interrogating, perceptive creature her mom would turn into around Clarke? Although maybe she’s not being fair – Audrey was always perfectly composed and pleasant with Costia. 

Lexa allows herself to envision it without the catastrophizing she frequently indulges in. Maybe one day, in the not-too-distant future, they could do it. Maybe Clarke would fit right in with her family, and she and Aden would laugh over the stupid shit he’d say. And it would be warm and happy and perfect. 

She ducks her head into her textbook and smiles again. 

*** 

Lexa goes to Santa Ana Comics for her Thursday evening shift that next night, periodically letting out silent laughs at Clarke’s ridiculous texts. She’s picking out a comic from a bottom shelf for a customer when the bell above the door dings. Lexa stands up and feels her face stretch into an unconsciously idiotic smile when she sees who walks in. 

She reminds herself there are other people in the store besides Clarke and Wells, and circles the long, narrow shelves once before approaching them, trying to keep her grin from taking over her entire body. She can’t even help it. She is so stupidly attracted and attached to this girl. 

Jesus, her mom is completely right. 

“Hey, guys,” Lexa says. 

“Hey, you,” Clarke responds happily. She jerks a thumb at Wells. “This one really wants a life-changing graphic novel, and I need something new after the existential dive-bomb that was _Watchmen_.” She grins. “Can you provide us with sustenance?” 

Lexa barely keeps herself from reaching out a hand to stroke Clarke’s arm or curl a blonde lock of hair around her finger. Being this close to her and not touching is almost intolerable. 

“I think I can work with those demands,” she says, and turns around to critically eye the shelves, already forming a few options in her head. “Important question, though. Escapism or realism?” 

Wells adopts a pensive look, following Lexa’s gaze. “Escapism, I think.” He gives a crooked smile. “Don’t know about you, but my life isn’t nearly interesting enough to want to experience more of it.” There’s something recognizable in his face, a kind of subtle bitterness that Lexa is intimately familiar with. She wonders where it comes from, realizing she knows nothing about his family situation. 

She nods, walking towards a case in the back of the store. She selects a book from the middle shelf and one from the bottom shelf, and goes back to them, displaying them so they can see. 

“So, for you, Wells, we’ve got _Low_ , _Vol. 1_ , written by Rick Remender.” She hands him the slim graphic novel. “It’s like billions of years in the future, after the sun’s expanded so much that Earth’s surface is irradiated and unlivable. So people have built this entire civilization under the sea, and they’re sending out probes to find another planet to live on.” Wells is flipping through it, looking intrigued. “There’s literally this time bomb over their heads, because they can’t keep living there, but there’s still optimism and hope, even in the face of that. _Excellent_ world-building, too.” 

Lexa turns to Clarke, half-smile on her face because, apparently, she can’t wear a neutral expression around her. “And for you, we’ve got _My Favorite Thing is Monsters_ by Emil Ferris. This got a _huge_ amount of press when it came out, because of the unorthodox, detailed, kind of surreal way she draws. It – it’s really fucking beautiful, and I thought you would like the art.” Clarke is just grinning at her as she accepts the book. “Not total escapism, though. It’s supposed to be the diary of a girl in the 60s, trying to figure out the murder of her upstairs neighbor, a Holocaust-survivor.” 

She stands patiently as they look through her offerings, hands clasped behind her back. This is always a pregnant moment with customers, watching their faces for contrived enthusiasm, wondering if they’ll be too self-conscious to ask for something different. Wells and Clarke both look genuinely interested, though (Clarke’s eyes especially are widening at the illustrations), and Lexa feels that welcome feeling of satisfaction. She does appreciate this part of the job – finding comics that honestly speak to people. 

She meant every word she said to Clarke in Mr. Koffman’s class, from what feels like years ago. Anything can have a poignant connection for someone, and it doesn’t matter what medium it comes in. 

Wells looks up at her finally, grinning excitedly. “This looks perfect, Lexa. Underwater cities, impending annihilation, and space robots. What more could I possibly ask for?” 

Clarke pushes her shoulder gently. “You’re good at this, you know,” she says proudly. “Almost like you’re some kind of professional.” 

Lexa nudges her back playfully. “Almost.” 

She rings them up, basking in Clarke’s affectionate gaze. When Wells starts to walk out, Clarke waves at him. “Gimme a second,” she says. 

When he goes outside with an eye roll, Clarke leans close, resting on her elbows on the counter, grin turning more impish. “My mom just texted to say that she pulled a last-minute night shift at the hospital.” 

Lexa raises an eyebrow. “Oh?” she asks, voice nonchalant despite the squirm of anticipation in her stomach. 

“You think Aden’ll be okay by himself tonight?” she asks, seriously. And, my _god_ , Lexa could not be more enamored with this wonderful creature. Because Clarke’s expressing frank concern over her little brother, knowing Lexa’s responsible for him at night, knowing how important he is to her. 

She suppresses the urge to hug her. “I can ask him. But I’m sure he’d be totally happy with the lack of supervision.” 

Clarke nods and then suddenly leans closer, grabbing the front of Lexa’s shirt and pulling her in. “I hope so,” she whispers into her ear. “Because I _really_ want to fuck you until you’re screaming.” 

She releases her just as suddenly and leans back, giving her one more mischievous smirk before flouncing out the door. Lexa watches her leave with wide eyes and a slack jaw, knowing she’s attracting flies. 

“Hi,” a voice says in front of her. A middle-aged woman drops the newest _Archie_ on the counter. “Just this today.” 

Lexa shuts her jaw violently and snaps her gaze away from Clarke’s ass, cursing everyone and her own debilitating gayness. 

She checks in with Aden after ringing the customer up (and trying to form actual sentences), and he assures her there are leftovers and that he won’t set the house on fire. 

 **_Lexa:_ ** _Aden says he’s perfectly capable of surviving a few hours alone_

**_Clarke:_ ** _YES. you’re mine, bitch_

**_Lexa:_** _oddly not very reassuring_  

 **_Clarke:_ ** _don’t worry, baby, I’ll treat you right_

Lexa watches the clock like a hawk, turning the lights off a few minutes early after slogging through a half-hour without a single customer. She locks the door behind her and turns around to find Clarke leaning insouciantly against her car, smirking at her. Lexa feels a warm glow in her stomach just from the sight. 

They drive home, listening to vintage Justin Timberlake, in a kind of heavy, electric silence. At a red light, Lexa puts her hand on Clarke’s leg and feels her shiver, and barely stops herself from straddling her right there. She takes her hand away, gripping it on her lap, and drowns in Clarke’s heated gaze before the light changes and there’s an impatient honk behind them. 

They wind through the slopes and valleys of Peralta Hills after passing over the bridge over the Santa Ana River, seeing the city’s lights and the distant Chino Hills when they reach an overlook. They pull into Clarke’s garage and step out, Lexa’s hands actually shaking from holding herself back. They step into the kitchen, closing the door, and Clarke is _on_ her. 

Lexa barely has time to inhale before Clarke is pushing her against the door, hand gripping the back of her neck as she kisses her, hard. She parts her lips without conscious thought, opening under Clarke’s demanding mouth, soft even in her insistence. Lexa’s breathing is already shallow as Clarke runs her tongue along her bottom lip and she opens to meet it, trembling at the feel of the other girl licking along the roof of her mouth. 

She grips Clarke’s hips closer as the warm glow between her thighs turns into an inferno, as she suddenly needs everything all at once. Clarke pulls back at her touch, and Lexa lets out a small, reflexive whine and chases her. She feels Clarke’s breath, heavy and hot, skating across her lips, but she leans back further so that Lexa can’t reach her. 

Lexa opens her eyes to lock gazes with Clarke, and what she sees fills her with a thrill of anticipation. Her eyes are that particular color of deep blue, almost black, that she’s really only seen once before, hungry and focused entirely on her. Clarke keeps eye contact as she snakes a hand into Lexa’s hair and tugs, _hard_ , pulling her head against the door and keeping it there. Lexa inhales shakily, her eyes widening. 

“You like it when I’m in control, don’t you?” Clarke says in a soft voice. Without the rapid way she was breathing, her tone would almost be conversational. 

Lexa shudders at the question, at the sensation of helpless longing, at Clarke’s greedy look, an involuntary, rumbling moan starting in her throat. 

“Yeah,” she pants out, feeling self-conscious and aroused and embarrassed all at the same time.

And what exactly _does_ that mean? Because if _Clarke_ is in control, then _Lexa_ isn’t, and that particular feeling is one she both knows well and despises. But something about this – about consciously relinquishing it, about giving in, and especially to Clarke – apparently _really_ does it for her. 

Clarke moves her hand to push against Lexa’s sternum, pressing her back firmly into the door. She steps back a little, eyes running over Lexa’s form, and moves her hand slowly, deliberately, to slip under Lexa’s shirt. Lexa twitches as Clarke’s fingernails skate over her abs, hand slowly spreading out to cover her in a possessive, restraining way that makes her instantly wet. 

Clarke brings her other hand to grip Lexa’s torso and suddenly spins her around, pushing her front into the door and crowding against her back. Lexa hisses in surprise and feels Clarke behind her, breasts against her back, pelvis against her ass, breath hot against her neck. Clarke grinds against her, rolling her hips, and Lexa moans into the door, forehead resting against it. 

“You need to tell me if this isn’t what you want,” Clarke says, surprisingly steadily, into the slope between her neck and shoulder. 

She reaches back up to tug sharply at Lexa’s hair again, angling her head back and exposing her neck for her mouth to close on it, all wet tongue and scraping teeth. Lexa shivers again. 

“I want this,” she gasps out. Jesus Christ on a dildo, she _wants_ this. She wants to be under her control, exist in a state where she doesn’t have to worry about anything except for what Clarke needs, for her body and hands and lips. 

“Good,” Clarke whispers. “Then don’t touch me until I say you can.” 

Lexa whimpers at that, because how can she _not_ touch Clarke? Not with her so close and warm and _wanting_. But she’ll do it, mostly because Clarke issuing commands is so sexy it’s unfair. 

“Hands on the door,” Clarke orders, voice low and rasping. 

Lexa complies, bending her elbows so that her hands are pressed flat against the door, on either side of her shoulders. Clarke untangles her hand from Lexa’s hair and moves both palms under Lexa’s shirt again, sliding up to cup her breasts through her bra. Lexa groans against the door, arching into Clarke’s hands as much as she can in the limited space. Her head tilts back to rest on Clarke’s shoulder behind her, and she feels a mouth on her neck again. 

She’s an instrument under Clarke, helpless and longing as the other girl kneads her breasts and sucks on her pulse point. Clarke pushes forward with her hips again, breath hitching against Lexa’s neck as she grinds on her, and Lexa’s hips buck reactively into the door. 

“Up,” Clarke says, a little breathlessly, reaching for the hem of her shirt. 

Lexa raises her arms and Clarke peels her shirt up and off, letting it fall beside them. Lexa puts her hands flat against the wall obediently again, resting her forehead on the door. She inhales sharply as Clarke presses warm, wide hands to her bare back, thumbs dragging a line on either side of her spine. She pants as Clarke rakes fingernails down her sides – not too hard, but sharp enough that she’ll have marks, and _fuck_ if that thought doesn’t make it hotter. 

Her breathing is shallow and quick as Clarke replaces her fingernails with her lips, dropping open-mouthed kisses all over her back, tongue flicking out to soothe the scratches. Lexa is shivering, aching, needing Clarke’s fingers on her, in her. 

There are a few moments without contact, where the girl behind her steps back and Lexa hears a rustling noise before Clarke moves close again. Lexa chokes out a moan as she feels Clarke’s bare belly and breasts press into her back, and her hands twitch with the need to touch her. 

“Keep them there,” Clarke says, in a voice low with want, clearly knowing where Lexa’s mind is at. 

Her own hands slide across Lexa’s stomach, dropping lower to play with the button of her pants. Lexa puffs air against the door, hips tilting with the hot pulse between her legs. 

“Clarke,” she whispers. 

Clarke moves her hands to cover Lexa’s own against the door, and she lowers her mouth to Lexa’s ear. “I didn’t say you could talk.” 

Lexa groans shakily. _God_. Why is commanding Clarke so _fucking_ hot? She needs more right the hell _now_ – so much that she’ll beg, plead unapologetically for what she wants. 

“You can tell me,” Clarke murmurs into her, biting her earlobe. 

“Clarke,” Lexa says again, too quickly. She’s so wet it’s painful. “I want you inside me.” There’s a beat, where it almost seems like Clarke’s waiting for something. “Please,” Lexa whispers, finally catching it. “ _Fuck_ me, please.” 

She’s not even a little bit embarrassed right now. She’s so far past that. 

Clarke unbuttons and unzips her pants in a heartbeat after that, kneeling behind her to pull them off. She’s still in her panties when Clarke stands up, trailing fingertips along her thighs and leaving a wave of prickles. She breathes hard, into the door, the cool wood feeling good against the heat of her skin. 

Lexa feels a hand slip under the waistband of her underwear and her mouth drops open. Fingertips draw random patterns into her hip bone before dipping, just barely, into her wetness. 

“ _Fuck_ , Lex,” Clarke exhales shakily, when she feels it. “You’re so wet. For me?” 

Lexa moans as fingers slide through her again, infuriatingly delicate. Her hips thrust ineffectively against the door. 

“Yes,” she pants out. “For you.” 

Suddenly the hands are gone, removed as Clarke steps back, and Lexa wants to cry. She lets out a choked half-sob and seriously contemplates shoving her own hand between her legs. She’s about to do just that when she hears something behind her that makes her stop. 

There’s another rustling noise, and then Clarke lets out a whimper, deep from her throat, and Lexa clenches her thighs together. Everything in her wants to turn around and see what Clarke’s doing, why she’s making those fucking _delicious_ noises and what Lexa can do to help. But then Clarke steps forward again, pressing into her, and Lexa hisses between her teeth when she realizes the other girl is naked except for her underwear. 

And then Lexa’s jaw is slack, breath punched out of her as she feels a hand slide quickly under her panties and dip into her, slipping over her clit. 

“Open your mouth,” Clarke says huskily, still sliding through her. 

Lexa feels Clarke’s other hand come up to her face and press against her parted lips. Clarke slides two fingers into her mouth and Lexa closes her lips around them, moaning loudly as she realizes she’s tasting Clarke, after she touched herself. The fingers on her mouth rub against her tongue and she hollows her cheeks greedily, sucking them clean. 

She’s swirling her tongue around them when the hand between her thighs moves forward, slipping a finger inside her. Lexa moans loudly, unexpectedly, as Clarke pulls out and pushes back in with two. She bucks as Clarke curls them and strokes inside her, hitting a wall that makes her knees almost buckle. 

Clarke takes her fingers out of Lexa’s mouth with a soft pop, and grasps her hips, pulling her a few steps back. Lexa’s elbows straighten with the new foot of space between her and the door, and Clarke curls an arm around Lexa’s waist, holding her. When she has a good grip and Lexa’s steady, Clarke slips a hand under her panties again. 

She moves with purpose this time. There’s no meandering or teasing, just two fingers running down Lexa’s clit and thrusting in, firmly but not roughly. She pulls out and traces the same route, pressing down into her clit before entering her, and Lexa is shuddering. Clarke’s arm is suddenly the only thing making sure she doesn’t slide down the door into a desire-saturated puddle. Especially when she starts moving in and out with reaching, thorough strokes. 

Lexa’s forehead and hands, still obediently where Clarke put them, press hard against the door, breath knocked out of her as Clarke adds another finger and makes it harder, makes it so _good_ and deep. Lexa can barely move her hips with the restraint, and the helplessness she feels in Clarke’s grasp somehow adds to the pleasure. The extra sensation of Clarke grinding on her ass, moving her own hips to chase the friction and groaning in Lexa’s ear, is almost enough to send her spiraling embarrassingly early. 

Something about this, the semi-publicness of it, the way they could barely wait to get past the door, the way they’re both still in their underwear – it makes everything hotter. It adds to the sensation of urgency, of impropriety, like they’re not supposed to be fucking half-clothed in the middle of Clarke’s kitchen, but both of them need it so much they don’t give a shit. 

“ _God,_ do you have any idea how good you feel around my fingers?” Clarke whispers into her neck, low and uneven. Lexa lets out a pathetic mewl. “How good you feel against me, letting me do whatever I want to you?” She bites down, hard, onto Lexa’s shoulder and she jerks. “You’d let me, wouldn’t you?” Clarke continues, laving her tongue over the bite marks. “Anything I wanted to.” 

“ _Fuck,”_ Lexa gasps. Her hips and back are arching into Clarke’s arm, taut and needing. “Anything.” 

“You’re mine,” Clarke growls into her, and oh _god_ , she is so close at that because, right now, at this current precipitous moment, there is _nothing_ she wants more. Clarke rubs the heel of her hand on Lexa’s clit during the next drive in, and she feels that familiar coiling at the base of her spine. 

She’s two strokes away from one of the hardest orgasms of her life when Clarke slows down and pulls out, and Lexa’s whimper from the back of her throat is almost a cry. 

“Clarke, _fuck_ , please,” she says. 

“You don’t come until I say you do,” Clarke rasps out, the hand curled around Lexa’s waist digging fingernails into her side. Lexa is shivering and panting, feeling utterly wrecked. She nods quickly, trying to appease her, needing her to keep going. 

Clarke waits a beat before sliding back into her. She’s so wet right now she can hear it, knows it’s covering Clarke’s fingers, and gets wetter at that thought. She feels Clarke reach into her, curl inside of her for the next thrusts, and she knows all she needs is another press against her clit and she’ll be gone. 

When Clarke pulls out the second time, she’s halfway expecting it and only lets out a weak groan. The third time, she swears she feels tears at the corner of her eyes, and knows this is what going a little insane feels like. The fifth time, when Clarke’s dragged her to the edge of orgasm and then pulled out, Lexa is a fucking shaking mess, mumbling and begging and barely able to stand. 

“Please, please, please,” she’s repeating in a desperate whisper. “Clarke.” 

The girl behind her, breathing hard into her neck and swiveling hips against her ass, enters her again. The feeling by now, of being filled, of deep, unreachable parts of her being stroked, is so familiar and _wanted_ that Lexa feels a rush of relief, tempered only by the thought that Clarke won’t let it be enough. 

Except this time Clarke rubs her clit with her thumb, moving in and out of her, and when Lexa’s hips cant forward and the pulse between her thighs grows, says, “You can come now, Lexa.” 

Lexa inhales through her teeth in a surprised hiss as Clarke speeds up, roughening her strokes and pressing against her clit. 

“Come for me,” Clarke says again, and that’s it, Lexa’s _gone_. 

Lexa’s coming so abruptly she barely has time to realize it’s happening before her vision is blotted out, her entire body arching like a taut bowstring. She comes so hard she’s pretty sure she loses consciousness for a moment, helpless against the explosion of light and sensation, torrents of sheer pleasure coursing through her. 

When she regains a measure of awareness, Clarke is holding her up around the waist, her body limp and sweaty, swaying in Clarke’s arms. 

“I’ve got you,” Clarke is murmuring, soft reassurances into her shoulder. “I’ve got you, Lex.” 

Lexa inhales deeply, leaning back against Clarke because her legs are shaking so much she doesn’t think they can support her weight. Her whole body feels like a loose, watery collection of limbs and organs, her mind full of buzzing blankness. 

She’s never come so hard in her life. It feels like she reached a newly-discovered spiritual plane of existence. Who the fuck is this girl? 

“Are you okay?” Clarke asks softly. 

Lexa nods dumbly, licking her lips to add some moisture to her suddenly dry mouth. 

“Was that too much?” 

Lexa shakes her head. “No,” she croaks out. 

Clarke splays her hands out on Lexa’s stomach, rubbing gentle circles into her hip bones. “Do you want to touch me now?” 

Lexa inhales in a juddering breath. “God, _yes_.” 

Lexa can feel Clarke’s smile against her skin as she kisses her shoulder, and then grasps Lexa’s hand and leads her out of the kitchen. She’s too fucked-out and sated to feel self-conscious about her nudity, or the stickiness between her thighs. Clarke leads them up the stairs, Lexa willing her legs to stop trembling, watching the other girl’s barely covered ass in front of her. They reach Clarke’s room and she pulls her inside, turning them so Lexa’s back is to the bed. 

Clarke puts a hand on her chest, between her breasts, and pushes firmly. “On the bed,” she says, nodding towards it. “Sitting against the headboard.” 

Lexa doesn’t hesitate. And there’s no real justification for her complying so fully with what Clarke orders, except that she _wants_ to. So much, so completely. She trusts her, and trusts what they both want. 

She climbs onto Clarke’s comforter, putting a pillow against her back and leaning against the soft, cloth-covered headboard. She stretches her legs out, tightening and releasing them, knowing she’s going to feel that ache in the morning. Along with numerous others. 

Clarke steps up to the edge of her bed, watching as Lexa does what she says with a small, satisfied smirk. She holds her gaze as she unclasps her bra quickly and then pulls her own underwear down, sliding it off her legs in one smooth motion. Lexa’s throat bobs as she looks at Clarke, re-learning the shape and curves of her body, the soft patch of hair at the juncture of her thighs, the pink paleness of her nipples, the full swell of her breasts. 

Clarke climbs onto the bed and maneuvers herself over to Lexa, straddling her and sitting back on her legs so that they’re inches apart, faces level with each other. Lexa’s hands, lying flat on the bed, twitch, and Clarke gives them a sideways glance. 

“You can touch,” she whispers, and Lexa sighs in relief. 

She raises her hands slowly, pressing them along Clarke’s thighs, moving up and cradling her hips, running fingers higher along her ribs. She watches as a wave of shivers follows her touch, thumbs pressing a firm line up to the underside of her breasts. She slowly, _slowly_ moves up to palm them, fingers skating over them at first, nails scraping lightly. 

She _loves_ the feeling of Clarke’s skin under hers, responding and warming to her, impossibly smooth and welcoming. She catches Clarke’s gaze, blue like deep, dark parts of the ocean, and cups her breasts fully, feeling their softness and weight. She brushes over her nipples in light passes before grasping them gently between her fingers, squeezing them. Clarke’s breath hitches in response, her muscles tightening. 

Lexa would be totally content to drag this out, to spend hours just touching and reveling in her, but she knows Clarke has already been waiting and generally isn’t a patient person. So she’s completely unsurprised when Clarke grasps her wrist, stopping her movement.

“I want your fingers,” Clarke says tightly. 

Lexa puts one hand on the back of Clarke’s neck and brings their faces close, tasting her shuddery exhale as her other hand snakes between Clarke’s thighs, fingers reaching slippery heat. 

She moans at how easily she parts for her, Clarke sitting up on her thighs and widening her stance to give her more room. 

“ _Clarke,_ ” she breathes out. “For me?” she asks against Clarke’s lips. 

“For you,” Clarke gasps, and crushes their mouths together. Lexa pushes her tongue into Clarke’s mouth the same time as she pushes a finger inside her, and feels the vibrations from Clarke’s groan echoing through her entire body. 

“More,” she says, between breaths, and Lexa adds another finger. “Yeah, _oh_ , like that,” Clarke mumbles, eyes wrenched shut as Lexa crooks her fingers, teeth sinking into her bottom lip. 

Lexa stretches her fingers, scissoring them inside Clarke, and the other girl’s mouth drops open. “ _Shit,_ Lex, what – again,” she orders, panting, and Lexa repeats the motion. She pulls out and drives back in with three fingers, spreading them out when she’s inside, rubbing against Clarke’s walls and swallowing the breath pushed out of her against her lips. 

Clarke opens her eyes again to meet Lexa’s, dark and swimming with desire. “Harder,” she says. 

She raises a hand and wraps it around Lexa’s neck, keeping it loose at first. When she tightens, just a little, thumb pressing a line against her pulse, Lexa groans at the possessiveness of it, helplessly turned on. 

“ _Harder_ ,” Clarke repeats, fingernails pressing into the side of her throat. 

Lexa wraps her free arm around Clarke’s back, keeping her steady as she starts fucking her, hand and forearm moving in a fast, rough rhythm. Her fingers pushing in and out, Clarke’s hand around her neck, Clarke’s thighs bracketing her own, her own hand splayed against the dampness of Clarke’s lower back – they’re so intertwined she doesn’t know her own boundaries. She’s sunk so far into this girl that she doesn’t know where she ends and Clarke begins. 

Clarke leans forward, hand still holding her throat, and flicks her tongue out against Lexa’s lips, breathing quick and shallow. Clarke kisses her, moaning into her as Lexa’s fingers stretch her, thrusting into her again and again, until Clarke is clenching around her and shuddering. Her hips are bucking into the air, her thighs trembling from holding up her weight. 

Just as Clarke’s breath starts stuttering, everything in her tightening in anticipation, Clarke takes her hand from Lexa’s neck and grasps her wrist, stopping her. 

“Wait,” she pants out. Lexa drops her hand and feels a flash of concern. 

“Are you okay?” she asks, hand on the small of Clarke’s back, thumb rubbing against the bottom of her spine. 

Clarke nods, slowing her breathing. “I want you to do something.” 

Lexa cocks her head, curious, and waits. 

“Flat on your back,” Clarke says, hand pressed against Lexa’s sternum. 

Lexa’s not completely sure what she wants yet but she complies, as Clarke backs up and sits up on her knees, giving Lexa room to scoot under and lay down. 

When Lexa is flat out on the bed, Clarke straddling her stomach, she shifts her hips up just a fraction, watching Lexa’s face. She raises an eyebrow questioningly as she moves further up Lexa’s body. 

“This okay?” 

Lexa’s eyes widen, understanding what she’s asking. “Yeah, _yeah_ ,” she says, grasping Clarke’s thighs and helping her shift up. 

She sounds more confident than she feels, because she’s never done it like this before. But she wants to right now – so _much_. She’s willing to feel a little weird and self-conscious if it means tasting Clarke like this. 

Clarke is soon directly above her, thighs on either side of her face, so close that Lexa can inhale her, see how wet and swollen she is. Clarke seems to hesitate, hands braced on the headboard, looking down at Lexa with the first tinge of uncertainty in her eyes she’s shown tonight. 

So Lexa meets her gaze directly as she grips the back of her thighs and surges up. She licks into her, tongue pressing through her folds, moaning at her taste and watching as Clarke’s jaw goes slack. 

“ _Fuck!”_  

There’s a sharp thump as one of Clarke’s hands hits the headboard in an unconscious gesture, as she lets out a loud, unrestrained groan. Lexa kneads her ass encouragingly, dropping her head back as Clarke lets her weight fall a little further on Lexa, bending her knees and pressing into her mouth. 

And, _fuck_ if this isn’t Lexa’s favorite new position. She loves that Clarke can set the rhythm, can grind against her if she needs to. Her own reach is smaller, her range of motion limited, but it’s completely worth it if Clarke can use her mouth however she wants. Lexa sees her grasp the headboard with one white-knuckled hand, the other fisting in the comforter next to Lexa’s head. 

Clarke starts rolling her hips, thighs shivering around her, and Lexa lets her set the pace and rhythm. 

“Oh, _Lex,_ ” she gasps. “Your mouth, _god._ ” 

Lexa scoots down a bit and presses into her, circling around her entrance until she finds the right angle and sinks in. 

Clarke lets out a choked moan to the ceiling, and really, the only bad part about this is how Lexa can’t fully see Clarke’s expressions. With most of her head currently occupied, she can’t completely appreciate the undoubtedly gorgeous contortions of the other girl’s face. 

With the way her body is straining, the tense quiver of the thighs around her ears, Lexa knows Clarke’s not far now. She licks a flat, hard route to her clit, focusing on it to get her there faster. She takes it in her mouth, sucking on it gently, and Clarke hits the headboard again, rattling against the wall. 

“Like that, _yeah,”_ she moans breathlessly. “C’mon – just a little more –” 

Lexa digs nails into her thighs as Clarke speeds her hips up, riding her mouth and letting out these little throaty whines that Lexa consumes just as eagerly as she’s consuming other parts of her. She breathes through her nose and lets Clarke go as fast and hard as she wants. 

It’s just a few more moments, a few more desperate hip rolls and Lexa pressing her tongue to Clarke’s clit, before her whole body tightens above Lexa, taut and quivering. She grips onto the headboard with one hand and twists the sheets in her other and hurtles through her release, crying out brokenly. Lexa holds her steady through it, hands to her upper thighs and mouth against her. Until Clarke’s hips still and she shivers with Lexa’s small licks, over-sensitive, rolling off her with a weak groan. 

“Jesus,” she says, limp and sprawled out on her back next to Lexa. She throws an arm over her face. “Jesus.” 

Lexa is similarly slack and sated, grinning lazily and angling her neck to see Clarke. Clarke takes her arm away, looks over, and immediately laughs. 

“You’ve got a little,” she says, motioning to her own mouth. 

“Oh?” Lexa says hoarsely, hand hovering over her grin. “Where exactly?” 

Clarke giggles and puts her hand, flat, in front of her own nose and then drops it. “Here, down.” 

Lexa wipes off her face, sucking on her fingers as she palms her chin and cheeks. Clarke rolls over onto her side, head propped on her elbow, looking at Lexa with unabashed affection. 

“That went pretty well,” she says. 

“My first face-sitting,” Lexa responds, turning her head onto the comforter to face her. 

Clarke raises her eyebrows. “No shit?” 

“God, I hope not.” 

Clarke laughs again, easy and free. “Mine, too.” 

“Look at that. Virgins, the both of us.” 

There’s a beat where they just lie there, staring at each other and grinning languidly. Lexa loves how Clarke looks right now – eyelids half-closed, mouth turned up in an indulgent, crooked smile, chin dimpling, hair all over the fucking place. 

Then Clarke looks to the side, her smile fading and eyes narrowing slightly, like she’s contemplating something but isn’t sure she wants to voice it. 

“What?” Lexa asks, picking her neck up off the bed, nerves fluttering in her gut. Are they doing this … now? 

Clarke chews on her bottom lip. “Do you usually fuck like this?” she finally asks, brow furrowing. 

Lexa frowns in confusion. “Like …” 

“With the,” she gestures broadly between them, “control and hair-pulling and –” 

“You giving me orders and me obeying them like it’s my goddamn job?” Lexa finishes. 

Clarke smiles in a small, embarrassed way. “Yeah, that.” 

“No,” Lexa answers honestly. “Never, actually.” She and Costia hadn’t ventured into that sort of territory, and the other girls she had been with were typically one or two-night escapades, not nearly enough time to experiment. 

Clarke peers at her searchingly. “Seriously?” 

“Yeah,” Lexa says, shifting and playing with a thread on Clarke’s bed in a self-conscious gesture. Her gut is twisting in discomfort, but if they aren’t going to talk about what they are, this is a comparably nerve-wracking yet important conversation. “I was always the top, actually. In a fairly vanilla way.” She does a half-shrug. “I _liked_ having control.” 

“I really would’ve called you for a top, too,” Clarke says, eyebrows scrunching in agreement. 

Lexa chances a look at the other girl, certain she’ll see some kind of judgment, but Clarke’s face is open and patient and empathetic. 

“I guess no one ever tried to switch it up with me, so I never knew if I’d like it.” 

“And you do? Like it, I mean?” 

Lexa turns her head and sees Clarke unable to hide her uncertainty. “Clarke,” she says, rolling over onto her side to face the other girl as well, putting out a reassuring hand on her hip. “I _really_ like it. It’s still kind of shocking to me how much.” 

Clarke’s face clears a little. “Okay. But you’d tell me, right? You’d tell me if anything made you uncomfortable or I went too far?” 

“Of course,” Lexa says firmly. She rubs her thumb onto Clarke’s upper thigh. “As far as I know, I’m down with anything that doesn’t involve large amounts of pain. You telling me when to take off my clothes is more than tolerable.” 

Clarke hums, small pleased smile on her face again. 

“What about you?” Lexa asks. “Have you frequently whipped out Commander Clarke in the past?” 

Clarke starts laughing helplessly at that, long enough that Lexa feels like she’s missing something. 

“What?” she asks, half-smiling. 

Clarke shakes her head. “No, it’s nothing. I’ll tell you later.” She reaches out a hand, too, twirling a lock of Lexa’s hair around her finger in a gesture so unconsciously intimate that it makes her feel both comforted and uneasy. “No, Commander Clarke has not made an appearance in the past. This is her dramatic debut.”

“Would _not_ have guessed.” 

Clarke grins at that, lowering her hand to Lexa’s collarbones and watching as her skin prickles in response. “I’ve never been exactly _shy_ in sex, you know, but the kind of confidence I feel with you – I’ve never had that before.” 

Lexa looks down at Clarke’s comforter, brow furrowing unintentionally. “So, you’re not just doing it because I get off on it? You like it too?” 

Clarke moves her hand under Lexa’s chin, gently raising it to meet her gaze. “Are you kidding, Lex?” she asks softly, eyes warm and clear. “Having you – this beautiful, smart, ridiculously strong, intimidating woman – hanging on my every word and trusting me enough to do it? It’s – ugh, I’m getting turned on just talking about it.” She shivers a little. “It’s such a rush.” 

Lexa feels like her smile is taking over her entire face. That’s how Clarke thinks of her? “You think I’m intimidating?” 

Clarke rolls her eyes. “Don’t even. Like you don’t walk around just waiting for someone to say something wrong so you can laser eye-beam them into the floor.” Lexa laughs. “I’ve seen some of my friends practically shit their pants if you look at them sideways. And, Bell – he’ll _never_ admit it, but I think he’s secretly terrified of you.” 

She’s happier than she probably should be at that statement. “Good. That’s what I’m aiming for.” 

Clarke gives her a lopsided, slightly reproachful smirk, and takes another moment to run her hand through Lexa’s hair. Lexa closes her eyes in contentment. 

“So, should we have a safe word?” Clarke asks after a beat. 

Lexa blinks. “God, I don’t know. Should we?” 

Clarke raises one shoulder. “Maybe just in case. Maybe because I _really_ want to tie you up blindfolded one day.” 

Lexa’s mouth falls open, warm desire suddenly pooling in her stomach at that image. “I … think I’d be amenable to that.” 

Clarke’s grin is all anticipation and hunger. “Good. Pick a word, then.” 

Lexa takes a moment, thinking. “Cantaloupe.” 

Her smile widens into something softer, eyebrows raising. “Okay, then. No chance you’ll be screaming that accidentally.” 

Lexa grins back and then bites her lip. “I also want to say … we can switch it up any time you want. Or I guess, any time either of us want. I mean, we can play around with it, right?” 

Clarke’s eyebrows push together while she smiles, and she cups Lexa’s cheek. “Lex, of _course_. We can do whatever the hell we want. You know I’m _never_ gonna complain if you wake up one day and decide you want to fuck the ever-loving crap out of me, and none of this bottom shit.” 

“Again with the romantic,” Lexa responds, grinning, and Clarke beams at her. 

Lexa leans in and kisses her, just because she can. Clarke smiles into it, curling a hand around the back of Lexa’s neck to bring her in closer. When she pulls back, her eyes fall onto the lighted, gently vibrating phone on the nightstand. 

“Shit,” Clarke huffs out, frowning. “My mom’s getting off her shift in like an hour.” She rubs a thumb along Lexa’s lower lip, looking regretful. “I should drive you back home.” 

They slowly make their way downstairs, picking up errant pieces of clothing along the way, exchanging kisses between putting them back on. Lexa still feels slightly dazed, head swimming with Clarke and sex and the imagined sensations of being tied up and blindfolded, totally subject to Clarke’s control. _God,_ that’s going to be hot. She can’t even wait. 

She kisses her one more time before getting out of the car at her house, waving as she drives off and then looking down and seeing the way her knees are trembling. She hopes Aden doesn’t notice.


	6. Chapter 6

The next week continues much as the last one had, with the added bonus of Lexa’s fantasies adopting slightly more bondage-ish undertones. Who knew, right? 

They attend a soccer match together next Friday, and Lexa is absolutely stunned to see Bellamy and Lincoln sitting together and talking as they approach the bleachers. Their bodies are tenser than, say, Wells laughing with Raven and Anya on their other side, but not as primed-for-combat as Lexa would have assumed, considering their past. She marvels at Octavia’s sheer force of will, because there’s no way she’s not responsible for this social anomaly.

Lexa and Clarke sit next to each other on the third row, so close that Clarke is practically in Lexa’s lap. She grips her hand the entire time, as usual expressing herself in loud and uncertain terms whenever Lake Preparatory Academy does something she considers “filthy.” She keeps up a commentary again, which Lexa appreciates because she’s starting to actually understand the rules and fouls. 

Octavia is a green streak of speed and compact force on the field. Lexa thinks she’s particularly unwilling to put up with Lake Prep’s aggressive shit today, and watches as she physically plants herself when the other team’s players check her or wrestle with her for space. She’s a block of unmoving, unintimidated stone, and Lexa is quietly impressed. 

Arcadia wins 1-0 at the end of a rough, slow struggle, the only goal in the game scored by a creative pass from Harper to Fox. Their group, mostly Lexa and Lincoln’s friends, pile onto the field after the teams shake hands. Lincoln puts an arm around Octavia’s shoulders, smiling proudly and leaning down to kiss her cheek. 

“You really held your own out there, O,” Clarke says. “They were targeting the crap out of you.” 

Octavia grins, shoving at Lincoln’s solid shoulder, her face sweaty and smeared with dirt. “See, Linc, those sparring sessions have been paying off.” 

Lexa feels a surge of disquiet in her gut. Lincoln shifts his eyes to hers in an anxious glance, and Lexa gives him a searching glare. “You’ve been bringing her to the gym?” 

Bellamy is staring at them too. “What now?” he asks. 

Lincoln opens his mouth to rationalize it, to both of them, when Octavia forcefully beats him to it. “Hey, Lexa, you know I love you and Anya, but I can learn how to defend myself without your permission.” 

The air shifts slightly, turning heavier. Wells and Raven look between the four of them warily. Anya’s mouth narrows but she doesn’t say anything, apparently content to watch. 

Lexa raises a dispassionate eyebrow at Octavia, crossing her arms loosely. She feels uneasy, and isn’t entirely sure why. She has an idea why the other girl is immediately defensive and a little pugnacious about this – after all, one of their first interactions involved Bellamy being a possessive ass, and Lexa can imagine Octavia’s chafing under his overbearing gaze. But she can’t really say why she herself is having such an issue with it. 

Maybe it’s the idea that the three of them _had_ to learn how to fight, to protect themselves, and Octavia is just dipping her toes into physical competency on a whim. That space in the gym is inviolate to her, Lincoln, and Anya, and part of her feels almost betrayed that he brought her there without telling them. She can sense Clarke watching their exchange closely. 

“Just wanna make sure you know what you’re getting into. None of us think of that as something to casually fuck around with,” Lexa says. 

Octavia twists and raises her jersey, displaying a collection of bruises on her torso and back. “This look like fucking around?” 

Bellamy hisses a breath between his teeth. “O, what the hell?” he says loudly. 

Lexa frowns at them. This shouldn’t be a big deal. But there’s something indefinable roiling in her stomach and she is suddenly hyper-aware of Clarke’s presence next to hers. 

“She asked me to train her,” Lincoln says, holding out his hands appeasingly. “It’s just a few times a week. We use training pads and gloves and I make sure she doesn’t get hurt.” 

Bellamy gestures at her, fuming. “That look like not getting hurt to you?” 

Octavia steps in front of Lincoln, eyes flashing and face flushing with anger. “I’m sorry that you have a problem with this,” she says sharply, looking between Lexa and her brother. “But it’s not your shit and it’s not your choice. Bell, I want to do this. I like it, and I’m good at it. Lexa,” she turns her stare on her, “it’s not your call. Lincoln isn’t yours to tell what to do.” 

Lexa clenches her jaw and swallows her own anger. She’s _never_ claimed that. She’s never thought of anyone in her group as _under_ her. But she also can’t really say why this is bothering her so much, and Octavia has a point. It’s Octavia’s prerogative if she wants to learn how to fight, and it’s Lincoln’s choice to train her. She shouldn’t have a say in it. 

Reflecting that, at a different time, she would’ve lost her shit by now and gotten in Octavia’s face in an animalistic challenge, she chooses the more mature route and pushes down her anger. She inhales deeply, unlocking her jaw. 

“You’re right,” she says stiffly. “It’s not my call.” 

Octavia stares at her for another moment and then nods, her face softening. She steps forward again, holding Lexa’s gaze. 

“I know this is important to you,” Octavia says to her, so quietly that Lexa can barely hear her. “I want you to know that I respect that.” She looks at her with a plea in her eyes, brow furrowed. “I want you to know that I don’t take it lightly.” 

Lexa’s insides uncoil a little at that, and she inclines her head towards Octavia, nodding back. Something about Octavia’s solemnity, her acknowledgment of Lexa’s discomfort, is reassuring. Clearly, Bellamy doesn’t share that sentiment. 

He inhales deeply next to her, rubbing a hand over his face. 

“I – I don’t understand you,” he says, almost helplessly. “Why do you have to make everything so hard?” Lexa feels something resembling towards sympathy for him as he motions towards his sister. “I just don’t want you getting hurt.” 

Octavia steps closer to him. “Sometimes getting hurt is worth it,” she says softly. 

Lexa’s body unconsciously tenses so tightly at that statement she leaves crescent fingernail-shaped indentations in her palms. She looks at Clarke and doesn’t understand the cold rush of fear spilling into her gut. Clarke is looking back at her steadily, beautiful eyes swimming with concern. They shift into anxious confusion as she takes in the apparently revealing expression on Lexa’s face. 

“Lexa,” she says quietly, reaching out to take her hand. “What’s wrong?” 

Lexa grasps her hand and smooths out her countenance with an enormous force of will. She shakes her head. “It’s nothing.” 

Clarke frowns at her, clearly not satisfied with her answer. She opens her mouth to say something else when Raven cuts in. 

“Okay,” she says, eyes flicking nervously between everyone. “Good news. The Halloween bonfire we’re throwing tomorrow has nothing to do with Octavia’s well-being. So no one has to flip their collective shit.” 

“Yeah,” Wells echoes, clearly trying to steer the conversation into safer waters. “I know this stretch of beach along Belmont that’s empty most of the time. It’s a bit of a drive, but it’s worth it. And we can carpool.” He looks among the group, smiling. “Who’s in?” 

The tension in the air snaps and nearly everyone starts talking. They mumble their assent, dispersing and discussing car situations. Octavia hangs back as Lexa disentangles her fingers from Clarke’s, the other girl looking down at their hands. 

“We good?” Octavia asks Lexa, her voice solid but with an edge of uncertainty. Lincoln is hovering behind her, and his wide, dark eyes communicate that it’s not just Octavia asking. 

Lexa nods at both of them. “Yeah,” she says, trying to inject a note of warmth. “We’re good.” 

They amble off, holding hands and bending their heads together, talking quietly. Lexa feels a surge of envy at their unquestioning commitment, at the ease of their loyalty to each other. She doesn’t turn back yet, knowing Clarke will ask her again. 

“I’m thinking Michonne,” Lexa says quietly, facing Clarke and talking over whatever concerns she wants to voice. 

Clarke blinks. “What?” 

“Walking Dead character. Katana. Headband. Halloween.” 

Clarke stares at her before giving a small smile. “I love it when you talk exclusively in periods.” 

Lexa smiles back, and it feels more natural than a few minutes ago. “Monosyllabic grunts really do it for some people.” She shifts her backpack on her shoulder and jerks her head towards the school, gesturing for them to walk back. “I’m good,” she says preemptively. 

Clarke raises an eyebrow. “Okay,” she says lightly. Lexa can hear the deliberate nonchalance in her tone. 

“So, who are you going as to the bonfire?” 

Clarke huffs a contemplative breath. “I kinda like your idea of zombie-decapitating female badass.” 

Lexa frowns skeptically. “There are a lot of those?” 

Clarke shakes her head in indulgent pity, smirking at Lexa’s ignorance. “And you call yourself a lesbian.” 

*** 

Lexa goes through Thursday and Friday with a strange sensation of distance between herself and Clarke. She feels an irrational need for space and allows herself to act on it, not looking at the compulsion too closely. She tells herself they’ve been moving so fast, tumbling into an intimacy neither of them are probably prepared for. A few fucks and whispered confessions don’t equal an obligation for emotional dedication, for either of them. 

She says to herself, a little air and time would be good for them, and ignores both how much she already misses Clarke and the creeping fear and unease that hasn’t gone away since the soccer match. 

She chooses seats in the front of her classes, deliberately away from her usual desk choices and, coincidentally, Clarke. She pays attention, taking notes and not casting her eyes where they want to go. She can feel Clarke’s gaze on her periodically, heavy and questioning, but pretends she can’t. She eats lunch in a corner by herself those two days, looking through _Wuthering Heights_ to give herself an excuse for isolation (except her eyes glaze over because she _hates_ this goddamn story – fucking Heathcliffe).

She answers Clarke’s texts with short, non-committal responses during her shift at the store, re-reading her favorite volumes of _Preacher_ and ignoring the voice growing more insistent in her head yelling at her, asking her what the fuck she’s doing, she’s fucking everything up, she’s throwing out something special and she can’t even justify why. She listens to the prickling in her gut and not the frantic, shouting part of her. 

She rides the bus home on Friday and plays a few mindless rounds of _Star Wars: Battlefront_ with Aden, enjoying the ease of it and laughing at his shouted obscenities and gesticulations. She cooks a simple pasta dish with veggies and garlic bread for them, and goes to bed unusually early, spending a few restless hours trying to quiet her stomach and head. 

Lexa goes for a morning run on Saturday, seeking out hills and sprinting up them until her veins feel like they’re pumping lead, until her legs are blocks of cement, until her breathing drowns out the rapid-fire thoughts and questions in her head. 

She and Anya drive to thrift stores in the early afternoon to find costumes. She finds a good enough approximation of Michonne’s outfit, picking out a tan vest, pants, and faded headband, and they go to an actual costume store to get a plastic sword for her and Game of Thrones’ Stark regalia for Anya. The imposing fur cloak and icy stare fit Anya like a glove, and Lexa grins approvingly at her. 

They drive towards the Belmont shore at 7:30, after dinner with her mom and brother, picking up Luna and Nyko on the way. Luna’s dressed as Merida from _Brave_ , looking pretty and fierce with her mess of curly hair, dark green dress and fake bow and arrow. Nyko’s apparently gone the children’s movie route too and found a Shrek suit. 

Anya and Lexa break down in laughter when they see his tentative grin, peeking out from a green mask, extra pair of prominent ears on his head. Luna throws an arm around him when he gets in the backseat, kissing his cheek and making him blush more. 

They find the stretch of sand from Wells’ detailed instructions after about thirty minutes, and pull their car into a clearing with other vehicles, sand dunes encroaching and small tufts of grass peeking out in the distance. They clamber out, breathing in the salt and tang of the air, and admire the clear crescent of the moon, reflection glittering on the waves. They follow the noises and dim light to the party, where an enormous pile of burning logs is crackling happily and shooting off sparks, filling the air with the pervasive, comforting scent of wood smoke. 

People are standing or dancing around it, in various states of dress and undress, holding plastic cups or beer cans. Someone’s driven their car out onto the sand and the doors are open, bass and synthetic electronica blasting across the water. Raven finds them, wearing a black turtleneck, khakis, and glasses, her hair pulled severely back. She greets them with effusive shouting, and Lexa doesn’t fail to notice that Anya is the only one she hugs. 

In response to Nyko’s question, she points to a small sticker on her chest of half of an apple, grinning. “Steve Jobs!” she says excitedly. “May he rest in the peace of technological immortality.” 

She leads them over to several coolers nestled in the sand, popping the tabs of a few Miller Lights and handing them out. Lexa takes a long swig, looking around to see who she recognizes. Lincoln and Octavia are dancing near the fire, and Lexa thinks they’re arbitrarily dressed as twelve year-old nerds, until Raven tells her they’re the kids from _Stranger Things_. 

Her eyes automatically seek out blonde hair, and she focuses on Clarke before she can stop herself. The other girl is talking to Wells closer to the shore, and Lexa almost spits out her drink when she sees what she’s wearing. 

Clarke is in a gauzy, low-cut red dress, one side flowing to her knees, the other with a slit running high to her hip, exposing black shorts underneath. She’s got knee-high black boots and a strap around her upper thigh, with a holster and fake gun. There’s another fake uzi strapped to her back, and Lexa immediately recognizes Alice from _Resident Evil_ , and mentally toasts her ingenuity. She runs her eyes along Clarke’s incomprehensibly long legs and uncovered back, and feels a warm coil in her gut. 

She takes another purposeful gulp and faces Luna and Nyko, deliberately turning her back to Clarke. She’s not here for her, and this is her repeated mantra through the methodical consumption of her next two beers. She laughs with Anya and Luna, watches Raven and Nyko do some strange, jerky approximation of break dancing, and ignores Clarke. 

She’s swigging her fourth beer, vision blurring on the edges and limbs tingling, when she looks towards the shadowed end of the path they took to the beach, and stops dead. Her body stiffens, something hot and ugly dropping into her stomach. 

It’s Clarke and Finn. 

They’re about 30 feet from her, a few feet off the path, and apparently oblivious. They’re standing close together, foreheads inches apart, and Clarke is holding his hand. She’s holding his hand. She’s _holding_ his _fucking_ hand. 

Something roars to life in Lexa’s chest, a furious, fire-breathing creature that wants nothing more than to drop Finn on his fucking ass with a well-placed heel to the face. To drag him towards the ocean and throw his stupid, wavy-haired, entitled shit-head into the water and let him sink. 

What the _fuck_ is Clarke doing with him? 

No, no, wait. They never talked about this. They never said they were going to be exclusive or that they didn’t have other partners. Lexa didn’t want to define what they were, didn’t want to talk about _relationships_ or _feelings,_ so she can’t just take a shit on Clarke because she’s decided to pursue other people. Clarke has the right to do whatever she wants with whoever she wants and Lexa has no right to feel jealous about it. 

This logical recitation, however, does nothing to lessen the homicidal urges bubbling up in her. Or the overwhelming, gut-wrenching feeling of hurt and betrayal. 

She stands and watches as they talk in quiet voices, still intimately close together, and unconsciously tightens her grip on the beer can in her hand. Then she notices what she’s holding and brings it to her mouth, chugging the whole thing down and crumpling it on the sand. She sees Clarke raise a hand to his face and cup it tenderly (she’s touching his _face_ ), and her hands are shaking as she plants her feet and can’t tear her eyes away. 

It’s a few more moments of verbal intercourse before they turn around and head back towards the fire. Clarke takes several steps and then raises her head sharply, as if sensing someone’s gaze. She meets Lexa’s eyes and immediately freezes, her face paling. Lexa feels her own expression unintentionally twist into a sneer, fists clenching at her sides, and she snaps her gaze around to start walking away in a stiff, rolling motion. 

She has no idea where she’s going, just knowing that if she doesn’t get away from her she’ll start shouting, or fall to her knees and beg her not to leave, or chug another beer. She shuffles through the sand towards the ocean and tries to take a calming breath, inhaling spray and clear air, but her head is still spinning and her veins are hot and singing. 

She only half-hears the figure catching up to her, and jerks when Clarke shouts, “Lexa!” behind her. 

Lexa bites her lip so hard she tastes blood and slowly turns around, seeing Clarke breathing heavily with wide, scared eyes. She ignores how her body responds to her presence, even now. 

“What.” She drags the word out, venom in it, her lip curling. 

Clarke actually flinches at her tone and Lexa clenches down hard. She has no right, she thinks. Clarke can do what she wants. 

“That wasn’t what it looked –” 

“I don’t give a _fuck_ ,” Lexa tries to say in a steady voice, but she snarls the last word. 

God, she’s losing it. Anger is blotting out her vision, her hands are twitching, and her stomach is a raw, writhing mess. She’s making this into a huge, emotional clusterfuck again. No right, she repeats, but then she’s talking and it’s coming straight from the gaping red hole in her chest. 

“I don’t give a fuck what you do,” she sneers. “You wanted a little edge in your life, huh? Got tired of the easy, safe rich guys, and decided to try fucking around with a girl from a different zip code.” 

If someone had asked Lexa about her level of insecurity before this, she would have responded with something between an incredulous scoff and self-assured eyebrow raise. She was confident in her place, in her abilities, in her relation to the people around her. She would’ve laughed in their face and walked away, knowing that she, as a person, was totally comfortable with herself, flaws and strengths and all. 

Except now a snake of heated words is running through her head, _I should’ve known I should’ve known you should’ve known_ , and she just wants to _hurt_ Clarke because she knows it’s her own fault for assuming otherwise. 

Clarke takes a step back and looks like Lexa just slapped her. Her face is contorted in shock and pain, blood draining from it.

“I’m so glad I could help you with that little experiment,” Lexa continues, fists at her sides and knuckles white. Her head is a hot torrent from the alcohol. “But I get it. You don’t have to explain. Go back to him and leave me the fuck _alone_.” 

Clarke opens her mouth a few times, blinking hard. “Is – is that really what you think of me?” she asks finally, her voice shaky and small. 

Lexa’s heart lurches with guilt at how hurt Clarke sounds, but then it’s submerged under more fury and a sharp, twisting sensation of vindication. Of course that’s how Clarke sees her – how could she not? She opens her mouth to deliver more scathing indictments when the other girl cuts her off. 

“You fucking coward,” Clarke spits. Her eyes are suddenly flashing and her voice is loud and still shaking, but with anger now. 

Lexa snaps her jaw shut. 

“You’re a coward,” Clarke repeats. “This is how you’re gonna try to end this?” 

Lexa finds her voice and points at Finn, who’s currently standing 20 feet away, watching them. This is _not_ her fault. “What was that about, Clarke?” she shouts, holding onto her anger. “You want me to believe you’re not fucking him after that?” 

“I was telling him I was with you!” Clarke yells back. 

Lexa freezes. 

“He said he loved me and I said didn’t. I told him about us,” Clarke says, her eyes shining with unshed tears. Lexa’s stomach twists at the sight. Clarke curls her lip in disgust and shakes her head. “Except clearly there is no ‘us.’ You shut me out for two days and then push me away with some terrified, biphobic bullshit?” 

Lexa is standing still, nonplussed. Her brain is a buzz of white noise, trying to catch up. 

“I thought I understood you,” Clarke says, clearly trying to keep her face from twisting in pain, her chin quivering. “I thought we had this. But – but that’s what I am to you? Like I don’t think you’re good enough for me?” 

“I’m _not!_ ” Lexa says loudly, suddenly, shocking both of them. 

Clarke’s face changes again, unfallen tears still sparkling. She looks lost. “What?” she almost whispers. 

The tautness in Lexa’s body dissipates, her anger leaking out and deflating. She nearly goes limp in realization, the furious heat on her skin cooling. 

Yeah, this is it. This is what she was so scared of Wednesday. 

In the beginning, it was her anxiety around her own emotions, her hatred of uncertainty and unknown outcomes, her dread motivated by self-preservation. 

All of those things have _nothing_ on what she fears now. They’re completely eclipsed. She hears Octavia say, sometimes getting hurt is worth it, and her subconscious roars, _not Clarke_. She won’t hurt Clarke like that. Because she will, inevitably. 

She’s violent and angry and terrified and she won’t pull Clarke down. Clarke who’s so good, so fucking _good_ and idealistic and talented, and who shouldn’t stay for her. Clarke who needs to go to the best art school money can buy, and not think about Lexa eschewing college to work two shitty jobs in Anaheim just to help her family stay afloat. Clarke who should stay _away_ from people like Lexa and where she comes from. 

Clarke who needs to move to Manhattan and become famous for her paintings, and not worry about posturing, emotionally infantile, unstable Lexa. Clarke who shouldn’t be around someone who frequently uses her fists as a form of self-expression, who carries a switchblade at all times and has a baseball bat leaning against her bedroom wall. Who carts around hostility like extra emotional baggage. Whose main impetus for action is fear. Who only Costia could love. 

Clarke who deserves so much _better_ than what Lexa could ever give her. She’s had enough loss and pain in her life already and Lexa won’t add to that. 

Because they’re already in deep enough with this, and she won’t be responsible for dragging Clarke down with her. Because Clarke looks at her sometimes like she’s the entire fucking world, and she’s _not_ , god, she’s not. Clarke can’t keep deluding herself with that, and she doesn’t want to be around when she figures it out. 

And Finn, whether or not anything was going on between them, provided a well-timed justification. 

Lexa takes a deep breath and unclenches her fists. 

“You don’t need this,” Lexa says, more calmly. She looks across the ocean, at the shine of the moon on the water and not at Clarke’s anguished face. “I’m gonna hurt you, or let you get hurt, or keep you from what you want.” She gestures between them. “Whatever we had – it’s not working. I don’t want this.” 

Clarke doesn’t move and Lexa shifts her gaze to the sand at her feet. She can’t look at her. 

“Is everything okay?” someone asks in a soft voice, and Lexa sees Finn step close, looking between her and Clarke with a concerned, wary expression. 

“Yeah,” Lexa says shortly. “We’re done here.” 

She walks away without another look at Clarke, her heart cracking in her chest. She can’t look back or else she won’t be able to keep moving. She needs to do this – this necessary, right thing. It doesn’t matter how much she wants her, how much this is hurting her – it needs to happen and better it’s now before they mire themselves in an actual relationship. 

They’re too different. And this isn’t just about money or geography – it’s about who they are and where they came from. It’s about the cynicism and bitterness that Lexa carries around with her, and how she can’t trust anyone unless they’ve proven themselves on the battlefield (metaphorically and not). Clarke is too good for her. 

They’re from discrete spaces in the world, and they shouldn’t overlap. She understands her unease around Octavia sparring now, too. It felt like an unnecessary intrusion, like fingers pressing against a malleable but distinct barrier. She doesn’t want Clarke there. And the part of her that does – that’s the selfish, weak part. 

This is what she has to do. 

Lexa spends the rest of the night chugging beer and standing close to the fire in a morass of self-loathing, feeling the flames heat her face. She doesn’t see another sign of Clarke for the rest of the entire party. She keeps imagining her face, a rictus of pain and hurt and anger, and her heart is a fissure behind her rib cage. 

At 2am, drunk and stumbling, Anya drags her to the car despite her protestations. She drives her, Luna, and Nyko home, Lexa passing out in the front seat and only waking up when Anya pulls up to the curb of her house. 

Anya manages to get them inside the door before Lexa drops to her knees, swaying and feeling the obstruction in her throat grow, feeling the tears she’s been shoving down the whole night filling her eyes. She staggers to the couch and presses a hand over her face, hiding her spilling emotions from Anya and embarrassed at the loss of self-control. She can’t remember the last time she cried, but she’s so _tired_ , and she doesn’t have the energy or focus to stop herself. 

Anya sits down next to her and tentatively drapes an arm around her shoulders and, after a few moments, Lexa leans into her, accepting the rarely-offered comfort and crying quietly into her chest. 

Lexa throws up twice over the next half hour, Anya rubbing circles into her back and holding her hair. When she wakes up the next morning in her bed, the late morning sun is shining through her windows and she’s never felt as shitty as she does at that precise moment. 

She wobbles into the bathroom and stares at her reflection, eyeliner smeared and running, eyes bloodshot, mouth tasting like a ferret built a nest of shit in it, stomach still roiling, and hates herself so acutely it’s a physical sensation. 

*** 

Lexa’s life over the next two weeks somehow, improbably, keeps happening. She goes to school, takes shifts at the comic store, looks after Aden, does her homework, examines local community colleges, spends time with her neighborhood crew, and goes to sleep. She desperately and methodically fills her time up with everything and nothing, because as soon as she stops moving, she remembers. As soon as she takes a few minutes to breathe or let her mind wander, she feels it. 

There’s a cavity in her chest, in her gut, like someone’s taken an ice cream scoop and hollowed her out. She doesn’t know how Clarke filled up such a huge part of her in such a short period of time. She doesn’t understand how the absence of this girl feels like a perpetual evisceration when they weren’t even together. It was, what, two months since they started actually talking to each other? Maybe two and a half? 

But it feels like she’s been some part of Lexa’s life forever, like the space where she burrowed into Lexa’s body had just been waiting patiently for her. 

If she stops moving and starts thinking, Clarke blots out her vision. She misses her so much it manifests itself as a stomach ache. She misses the smell of her hair and skin, the cleft in her chin that deepens when she smiles, the way her eyes darken with want, the feel of her body on top of hers. She misses the ludicrous, obscene texts that make her grin, the way that Clarke can dismantle her with a few whispered words, the private, secret crooked smiles that only Lexa gets. 

Her mind rolls through a kaleidoscope of images, past and future, when she stops thinking of something else. It offers her memories of the party where they first kissed, of Clarke pushing her against the kitchen door and fucking her into oblivion, of her feet on Lexa’s lap, hands massaging arches and toes. Then it presents images of an unrealized future, of picnics in Limestone Canyon and lazy kisses, of weekend dinners with Clarke and Lexa’s mom, of Lexa visiting Clarke at her college and being paraded proudly around. 

Those are the worst ones, those potential futures. Lexa knows she made the right call for both of them, but that doesn’t stop those from feeling like a sharp fist to the kidney. 

So she distracts herself continuously. In classes where blonde hair is at the periphery of her vision, she focuses so hard on the lecture she feels like she’s developing tunnel vision. She takes notes furiously, never allowing her head to turn in Clarke’s direction. In a manic fit, she reorganizes and cleans the entire comic store over three nights, so thoroughly that her boss, Bill, texts her to ask her what the fuck happened. 

She runs hard when she can, sprinting up and down the hills of the city, and punches the shit out of bags when she can’t. After leaving a spreading purple bruise under Lincoln’s eye from a brutal jab she didn’t check, he refuses to spar with her. 

“Not when you’re like this,” he says tightly, ice pack to his cheek. 

So Anya steps in, and they barely hold back, and that’s how Lexa likes it. Anya is faster than Lincoln, darting inside Lexa’s defenses like an uncoiling whip, and Lexa can barely keep up when the other girl goes all out. She usually comes home from those nights limping, new bruises rising under her skin, savoring the self-punishing satisfaction that comes whenever Anya lands a hit. She collapses when she gets home, wrung-out and exhausted, and spends the new few hours on her bed with her hands pressed over her eyes, trying to force Clarke out of her head. 

The few times Anya tries to bring her up, Lexa shuts her down so fast she doesn’t even have time to say her name. 

She sees her at Arcadia, of course she does. It’s not a large enough high school to avoid someone, but Lexa does her damn fucking best. She suppresses that long-conceded urge to seek out Clarke every time she enters the cafeteria or a class they share. She ignores whenever she hears her voice at the edge of her hearing, or sees her group of friends clustered near the lockers. 

When her eyes shift before she can stop them and she gets a direct glance in their English class, her stomach contorts, because Clarke is staring into space, washed-out and haggard. She looks as lost as Lexa feels. 

Octavia is the only one who still sits with them at lunch, and she is clearly unhappy doing it. She ignores Lexa when she’s not shooting her darkly violent looks, and this is one consequence of Lexa’s actions that she is truly regretful for. She discovers, with their absence, that she actually _really_ likes Clarke’s friends. She likes Octavia’s energy and optimism, especially when Lexa can be a part of it. She likes Raven’s intelligence and sarcasm, and Wells’ earnestness and knowledge. 

But the only thing they give her now when they pass in the halls are withering sneers or blank looks. They clearly blame her for whatever Clarke is feeling right now, and not that she can really fault them. It’s totally on her, but, as she tells herself whenever Raven curls her lip at her, it’s better now than later. It’s better for _everyone_ that this happened now. 

On the fourth night that Lexa pushes dinner around on her plate, barely eating, Aden peers at her with concern. 

“What’s up, Lex?” 

She shakes her head. “It’s nothing, Ade. Don’t worry about it.” She forces herself to take a bite of the chicken marsala she made. It goes down her throat like cardboard. 

“Come on,” he says gently, leaning towards her. “You’re not eating, you’re out running every night, and you look like shit – pardon my Albanian.” 

She doesn’t want to talk about this, not with him, not at _all_ , but she knows he’ll keep persisting if she doesn’t give him something. 

“You know … I was hanging out with Clarke a lot?” 

Aden’s face goes slack with recognition. “Oh,” he breathes out. “You guys broke up?” 

Lexa shakes her head violently. “No, that’s – we were never together. But, we’re not hanging out any more.” She sighs. “Whatever that means.” 

Aden cocks his head. “You really liked her, huh?” 

Lexa swallows hard and grinds her jaw. “Yeah.” 

His eyes go soft with worry. “I’m sorry.” He opens his mouth and then closes it, brow furrowing. He’s perceptive like that, understanding that Lexa probably won’t offer more information and prying is fruitless. 

“I’m going to try to get a part-time job when I turn 15 next month,” he says instead, taking a huge bite of chicken and asparagus. 

Lexa inwardly frowns but doesn’t let it show on her face. It makes sense, she knows it does. She did the same, finding a part-time position after school the first chance she could. A lot of companies won’t hire a minor that young, but a few will under stringent conditions set by California labor law. 

They’re lucky that they’re not struggling much for food. Her mom’s manager position at Albertson’s means she gets a good discount on their groceries, and she brings home whatever extra she can. But Aden’s shoes and pants are falling apart, and he was talking about trying out for the JV soccer team next year (he’s become quite smitten with the idea after watching Octavia own the field). Sports equipment isn’t cheap. 

Lexa knows it’s the right move, but she was hoping he could have one more year bereft of financial worry. She decides to throw him a kick-ass birthday party in December to make up for residual guilt. Seems like she’s got a lot of that to go around. 

*** 

She’s riding her bike home from the store the second week after the Halloween party, a Thursday evening, when Anya calls. When she rides at night, she goes as fast as she dares and keeps a switchblade shoved into her boot, because being anywhere by herself after the sun sets comes with an engrained set of fears. So when she’s peddling hard, her body tense and her senses keen, and her phone starts ringing, she almost swerves off the sidewalk. 

She stops, straddling the bar in front of the seat, and frowns at her phone. Anya _never_ calls, preferring the ambiguous tones of texting. Lexa has a twisting feeling in her gut as she answers. 

“It’s my mom,” Anya says, after a pause. Her voice is flat, unemotional. 

Lexa gets home in under three minutes, peddling as fast as her legs will pump, and opens the door in a rush. She yells for Aden, explaining the situation to him, and orders an Uber, pacing and checking her phone obsessively when it takes ten minutes to get there. 

She walks quickly into the ICU of Anaheim General, almost immediately finding Anya sitting on a torn, plastic chair in the waiting room, head in her hands. Lexa goes over to her, saying her name in a soft voice, and Anya snaps her gaze up to find her. Her eyes are dull and dry, her face worn and drained. Lexa sits down next to her, putting a gentle hand on her shoulder and understanding that that might be all the physical comfort she’ll accept. 

“Alcohol poisoning,” Anya says, in the same toneless voice. “I found her passed out on her bed, which, normally, not a big deal.” She sounds exhausted and apathetic. “But her breathing was weird and her skin had this blue tinge. So the paramedics came and brought us here. They’re not sure whether …” her voice trails off. 

Lexa curses under her breath. “I’m sorry, Ahn.” 

Anya shakes her head, nostrils flaring. She’s maintaining a blank expression but Lexa sees her hands trembling and knows she’s holding a huge amount of emotion back. Anya likes to pretend that she’s an emancipated minor, literally and emotionally, and adopts a jaded cynicism around Marian’s alcoholism. Lexa’s seen her scoff unconcernedly on the rare occasions they stop by Anya’s house and see her mom vomiting into the toilet, or drunkenly dog their footsteps, cursing them out. 

But Lexa knows when her mom shrieks at her, calling her a waste of space, a useless daughter, a violent degenerate – Anya feels it. And, even with all the times she’s consistently proven wrong, Anya holds onto a small, precious quantity of hope and is disappointed when her mom keeps the cycle going. 

Lexa isn’t even sure how Marian keeps her administrative job at a local car insurance company, considering Anya’s seen her pound back vodka shots at 8 in the morning, but she supposes there are a lot of semi-functioning alcoholics out there. 

“You want anything?” Lexa asks quietly. “Water or coke or something to eat?” 

Anya jerks her head in a negative. She rubs a hand over her face and exhales heavily. “I can’t believe her sometimes,” she whispers. “It’s like, there are quicker ways to kill yourself. If that’s what she’s trying to do.” There’s a flash of bitter fury on her face, passing quickly. “She’s such a selfish bitch.” 

Lexa feels an answering rush of anger on Anya’s behalf. “Yeah, she is.” She puts a tentative hand back on her shoulder. “But she also needs a lot of help.” 

They sit for a few more moments in silence, Lexa reflecting on the gratitude she feels for her own mom. Audrey may have some faults, but she does everything she can for her two children, and she so rarely indulges in selfishness. 

Lexa hears fast footsteps approach and they both raise their heads, eager but anxious for news. But it’s not a doctor from the hospital. It’s – Raven. Her face is panicked and agitated, intensifying when she sees them. 

Anya gets up so quickly she’s out of the chair before Lexa can even process, and then she’s colliding with the other girl, Raven hugging her with a fierce tenderness. They turn enough that Lexa can see both of their faces, Raven’s eyes closed and her hand cradling the back of Anya’s head. Lexa sees Anya is trying _so_ hard to hold onto her carefully neutral expression as Raven embraces her, but then the other girl turns to whisper in her ear and something positively shocking happens. 

Anya _breaks_. 

She completely breaks down. Her face crumples, twisting up in pain and fury, and she’s suddenly crying and shaking in Raven’s arms, holding onto her like she’s drowning. Lexa is stunned, frozen and staring at them, before a squirm of discomfort in her stomach tells her this is an intimate scene and she’s not privy to it. She averts her eyes, but the image of Anya’s shattered face is burning on the back of her eyelids. 

She’s _never_ seen her like that. She’s known her for almost ten years and she can count the times she’s seen Anya cry on two fingers, and both of those were before she turned eleven. _This_ – this open vulnerability, giving into intense emotion and actually _showing_ it – Lexa didn’t even think she was capable of it. 

She thought the thing with Raven was a casual crush, more physical than anything, but as she watches Raven out of the corner of her eye, stroking Anya’s head and whispering reassurances, she finds she’s forced to change her opinion yet again. 

Lexa keeps her gaze deliberately on the ground, trying to give them a modicum of privacy for the next few minutes, but then she hears measured footsteps and raises her eyes to see a doctor making a beeline for Anya. Lexa stands up as she and Raven let go of each other, Anya surreptitiously wiping her face off with the heel of her hand before turning to the doctor. 

He holds out his hand for Anya to shake. “Dr. Fernandez,” he says. He’s in his 50s, dark hair streaked with grey and brown, steely eyes. “Your mother is Marian Forrester?” At Anya’s nod, he continues, “She’s stable right now. We gave her oxygen therapy and intravenous fluids, and she’s resting.” Lexa sees Raven grasp Anya’s hand and give it a comforting squeeze. Anya sighs in relief. “She’s still unconscious, but would you like to see her?” 

Anya glances quickly at Raven and the other girl gives her an encouraging nod. “Yeah,” Anya says, clearing her throat. “Let’s go.” 

There’s a loaded silence after she leaves, Lexa and Raven standing a few paces apart. 

“Thanks for coming,” Lexa says quietly, breaking it. Raven shoots her a filthy look. “Yeah, okay, I deserve that.” 

Another beat. 

“How’s Clarke?” 

And she knows, _knows_ , the second the words come out of her mouth it’s the worst possible thing she could’ve said. Raven’s face reflects the stupidity of her decision, slowly, as if she can’t believe Lexa just said that. 

“Are you serious right now?” 

Lexa looks down at the floor, embarrassed. “It’s not like I don’t care about her –” 

“Shut the fuck up.” 

Lexa’s eyes widen as she raises her gaze. There’s nothing of the affectionate sarcasm she’s used to in Raven’s voice. She sounds _livid._  

“You don’t get to care about her,” Raven says furiously, stepping closer to Lexa, who abruptly feels like she’s being stalked by a predator. “You lost that right when you broke her fucking _heart_.” 

Lexa doesn’t know how to respond to that, so she stands there uselessly as Raven moves closer, getting into her space. “What – you didn’t realize you were taking a shit on every feeling she had for you? Exactly how fucking clueless can you be?” She’s spitting out every word in a cold, building rage. “You know, I swore to Clarke I wasn’t going to do this, but if you don’t even know how much you hurt her …” she trails off as she takes a deep breath, and then shakes her head dismissively, like she doesn’t want to calm down right now, thank you very fucking much. 

She moves one step closer, a foot from Lexa’s face. Lexa can see the icy fury in every line of her face. “You know how long it took for Clarke to start trusting people after her dad died? You know how long it took for her to start trusting _herself_ again? She distanced herself from everyone, me included. It took me and O _years_ to get her back to a place where she could open up, and she goes and puts her faith in … you.” Raven sneers, clearly communicating her opinion about Clarke’s poor decision-making skills. “You were one of the first people she trusted again. And,” Raven jabs a finger into Lexa’s chest, hard, and Lexa stumbles back, “you took that trust and flushed it down the fucking toilet. You  _hurt_  her, Lexa, so much, and I will _never_ forgive you for that.” 

Raven backs up, breathing hard and turning around, like she doesn’t even want to look at Lexa’s face. Lexa is frozen and nonplussed for the second time tonight, feeling Raven’s words slice through her. She didn’t know – she didn’t know Clarke had such a difficult time after her dad. She didn’t know how much Clarke felt for her. _Yes, you did_ , another voice says, loudly and insistently. _You knew and you chose to do it anyway._  

“I –” Lexa croaks out, and swallows. “I did it because we would’ve never worked. I – I didn’t want to hurt her more later.” 

Raven groans and runs a hand through her hair in sheer frustration. “That’s not your fucking call, Lexa! What kind of patronizing bullshit is that?” 

Lexa shakes her head firmly. “No, you don’t understand, Raven. It’s me – okay? She’s – I’m not enough for her.” Her throat tightens and she looks down at the linoleum again. “I’m not good enough.” 

Raven stares at her through narrowed eyes, and for the first time, the fury in her expression softens, just a fraction. “I don’t even know why I’m trying,” she says disgustedly. “You’ve clearly made _your_ mind up about what Clarke needs. And, no matter what I say here, she isn’t going to hurt any less.” She goes over to the chair and collapses in it, running a hand over her face. “We shouldn’t even be talking about this now. I need to be here for Anya, okay?” 

Lexa nods and goes to sit too, on a chair a few feet away. “Yeah.” 

They sit in a silence that’s only slightly less heavy than it was before. When Anya walks out fifteen minutes later, wiping the tracks under eyes, they both stand up in unison. They’re here for her – at least they can agree on that. 

*** 

She tries to shut them out, she really does, but Raven’s words ring in her ears for the entire length of next week. They echo while she brushes her teeth, or chops onions, or jogs without even realizing there’s music pumping through her earbuds. 

Lexa tries not to think about them because she _hates_ second-guessing her own decisions. While she’s perfectly prepared to admit she made this one under more emotional duress than usual (not to mention the effects of cheap beer and raging jealousy), that doesn’t mean it didn’t make sense. It doesn’t mean it wasn’t _right_. 

She’s not afraid to go by her gut sometimes, nor is she afraid to recognize when a situation requires a more dispassionate, objective viewpoint. She’s versatile in her decision-making skills. But this one – nothing in her head or heart or gut said, you and Clarke are going to last. Nothing in her declared, you guys are going to overcome the massive disparities between your lives, the internal and external obstacles, and live happily ever after in a hideously expensive, microscopic LA apartment. 

And, yeah, she feels like utter shit and like she’s missing an organ or limb most of the time, and she can barely eat and wants to hit herself in the face when Anya’s not fulfilling that particular role, but she can take all that if it means she’s spared Clarke some measure of future anguish. Because she _knows_ Clarke needs someone better than her. She _knows_ she would hurt her more, and she swore to herself that she would minimize that as much as humanly possible. 

But hearing what Raven said – visualizing Clarke in that much pain because of Lexa, it makes everything seem much blurrier. Lexa didn’t have the whole picture, didn’t know the extent of Clarke’s distancing after her father passed. Because if Lexa was the first person Clarke put her trust in after her father, then she really did flush it down the fucking toilet. 

Of course, on the beach with her head spinning, she thought about how this would affect Clarke. Of course she thought about how this would hurt her. She saw her face, after all – saw her crying, her lip quivering, her eyes swimming with sorrow and anger and betrayal. But, in her mind, the pain of now was so much less potent than the pain of what could be. It was the best possible outcome for both of them. 

Lexa tries to ignore Raven’s diatribe, but the words sneak up and knife through her. 

That first night after the hospital, Anya sleeps over at Raven’s and Lexa doesn’t see her until the day after, when she’s pale and composed at school. None of the emotion from last night is evident in her carefully neutral expression, and she tells Lexa that the hospital is holding Marian for 24 hours, after which she’ll be transferred to the rehab facility designed to help her through the potential week of hellish alcohol withdrawal ahead. 

Lexa doesn’t go with her when Anya picks her mom up on Saturday morning, but Anya keeps her updated. 

**_Anya:_ ** _she said she’s gonna try rehab. like she won’t pussy out the first chance she gets_

**_Lexa:_ ** _give her a chance, k? sounds like she wants to actually try. she’s never done that before_

**_Anya:_ ** _yeah sure. you can be optimistic enough for both of us_

The insurance company generously gives Anya’s mom some medical leave, and Anya packs a bag to stay at Lexa’s for the next three weeks. Not like she wouldn’t be there anyway for the majority of the time, but there’s somehow more gravitas in the recognition that, this time, things might actually change. 

Anya swears loudly and frequently that she’s moving out the second she graduates. Getting the fuck out of booze-saturated dodge, she says. Lexa hopes Marian can get her shit together enough before then, because if Anya has _any_ desire to pursue an advanced degree, it’s going to be a lot harder if she has to pay rent too. 

Lexa and Anya switch off weekly between the couch and her bed, because, while the couch is surprisingly comfortable, Lexa doesn’t want Anya to feel like a barely-tolerated guest. Lexa’s mom seems to instinctively understand that Anya needs some extra maternal affection, so she makes sure, when Anya seems receptive to it, to give her side-hugs and forehead kisses. Lexa sees Anya suppressing a smile the third time this happens, so she knows it’s appreciated. 

Anya drives her mom to the local rehabilitation center on Monday morning before school, and Marian checks in. Anya stays a few hours to help her get more comfortable and, from what Lexa can tell, they alternate between dead silence and fumbling attempts at small conversation. It sounds horrifying. 

Except during lunch at school that day, Anya stares down at her tray and says very quietly to Lexa, “She said she was sorry.” 

Lexa raises her head from contemplating the beef stew in front of her, staring at Anya. She looks better than she did two days ago, but there’s still an unfamiliar pallor to her skin and her eyes are ringed with dark bags. 

“She said she’s been a terrible mother and that she wants to do better,” Anya continues, in the same near-whisper. It’s shaking very slightly. “She said this is her shot to change and she won’t blow it.” 

Lexa almost doesn’t know what to say. “That’s … good,” she eventually murmurs. “Do you believe her?” 

Anya’s brow wrinkles. “I don’t know,” she says and sighs heavily. “I really want to.” 

“I think she deserves it,” Lexa says. “I know she’s been a shitty mother, but I think she deserves a second chance.” She doesn’t mention that the main reason she believes that is for Anya’s sake, because, even if Marian doesn’t make it through the program, Anya deserves a mom who at least tried.

Anya raises her head at that and her eyes flash with sudden anger before they empty again, the emotion gone as quickly as it appeared. She arches an eyebrow. “That’s debatable.” 

Lexa shrugs, stirring her questionable stew. “Well, she’s got it now regardless. I guess we’ll just have to see how she deals with it.” 

Anya lets out a contemptuous scoff and takes a bite of her food, grimacing as she chews. Lexa’s eyes widen as she sees Octavia and Raven make their way over to their table, Octavia, as per usual, sitting next to Lincoln. Raven takes the seat next to Anya and, before Lexa can do more than hastily suppress a gasp, kisses her on the cheek in a familiar, intimate gesture. Anya’s grimace lessens slightly and Lexa supposes that’s the Anya equivalent of beaming. 

Raven does the same action for the next four days, being a bedrock of emotional support for Anya and ignoring Lexa completely. Which she’s fine with and is, as far as Lexa is concerned, the only bright spot of the entire situation. 

Raven and Anya become firmly attached at the hip, apparently no longer content to let their relationship fly under the radar, and Lexa feels a warmth in her chest, absent for the last few weeks, whenever she sees them together. Anya is surprisingly open to affectionate displays, even if Raven is usually the one initiating them, and Lexa is both envious and grateful that she has someone to help her through this, even if that someone hates Lexa’s guts. 

Like Raven said at the hospital, they’re here for Anya. And the other girl has made it perfectly clear how she feels about Lexa, so she didn’t expect anything different. 

Lexa can’t help shift her eyes across the cafeteria, though. Her self-control at peeking at Clarke has been eroding since Raven’s invective, and she doesn’t know if she’s happy or sad to see Clarke laughing with Wells at their table. Her laugh isn’t nearly as full-bellied as it usually is, though, and she still has a faded look about her. Lexa shrivels inwardly, her appetite gone as her stomach twists with guilt. 

It’s that Saturday, when Anya is fighting with Aden via Playstation on the floor and Lexa’s mom is lying on the couch, absentmindedly playing with Anya’s hair, that her mom mentions Thanksgiving. Lexa looks up from her sandwich at the kitchen table and is almost shocked to realize that the holiday is only a few weeks away. 

Her first thought, tellingly, is Clarke. She tries to imagine Clarke and her mom in their big, empty house, sitting across from each other in the dining room in an awkward silence. She hopes they have plans with other people, like the Blakes, to make it fuller and noisier. She’s never met Clarke’s mom, but for some reason (maybe it’s just how surgeons are portrayed in TV shows), she pictures her as aloof and distant, unlikely to drop spontaneous kisses or hugs on her daughter. 

And, normally, Lexa would characterize herself as similarly averse to physical affection. Or she would have before Clarke happened. When they were in the midst of … whatever it was they had, they could barely keep their hands off each other, even if it was just a platonic brush of fingers, or a playful shoulder nudge. When she was with Clarke, all of a sudden it became obvious that she was as touch-starved and needy as a newborn kitten. 

Lexa immediately derails her train of thought when she realizes she misses Clarke’s skin so much she’s aching.

She manages to convince Lincoln to train with her again on Sunday, with promises of self-restraint and dinner afterwards. He straps on punching mitts and holds them up in front of her, dancing around as she alternates between left and right jabs, giving her suggestions on her form. 

“Your hips are moving too much with your right,” he says between chugging down water, breathing hard as they take a break. “You’re losing your balance when your lower half twists that much.” 

Lexa nods, ripping a glove off with her teeth and grabbing one of the bottles. “Yeah, you’re right. Good call.” 

“You know, I almost broke up with Octavia when we first started dating,” Lincoln says casually, and Lexa almost spits out her water. 

She shakes her head violently, her gut churning. “No, no, we’re not gonna talk about this.” 

“Yes, we are,” Lincoln says firmly, holding her gaze. “I’m out here, getting pounded on because you’re furious with yourself, and I know Anya won’t say shit. So, yeah, you’re gonna hear me out.” 

Lexa glares at him in a sullen silence, but she knows how this ends. When Lincoln really, _truly_ commits to something, he doesn’t back down. Ever. So she doesn’t say anything else, but she doesn’t move either, and Lincoln nods, satisfied. 

He walks over to the other side of the ropes, leaning against them and drinking water. “I had the same thought process that you probably did. You know – this can’t go anywhere, she’s a rich kid from the Hills and I’ll probably never go further than pushing weights here at my dad’s gym. I thought about ending things because she was only gonna get hurt, or I was gonna hold her back.” He stares at her appraisingly. “Of course, I also had her disapproving mom and brother breathing down my neck.” He points at her. “You don’t even have that excuse.” 

Lexa attempts to communicate homicidal urges through just her eyes, and Lincoln laughs, getting the picture. “So?” he asks, stare turning pensive again. “Is that what you were thinking?” 

Lexa breathes hard through her nose, her jaw tightening. “Yeah,” she answers shortly. “Pretty much.” 

Lincoln nods slowly. He keeps his steady gaze on her a moment more before Lexa cracks. “So what changed?” she asks stiffly. “Why’d you stay?” 

He hums thoughtfully. “It’s hard to say when I got the whole picture. I guess – I just realized that it’s her choice. If she thinks I’m worth it, if she thinks _trying_ is worth it, then it’s her decision to take that chance. If I make that choice for her, then I’m no better than any controlling, patronizing asshole out there who thinks his girlfriend isn’t capable of making her own decisions.” 

Lexa frowns. She’s not a controlling, patronizing asshole. Right? 

“And I love her,” Lincoln says simply, shrugging. “Just like you love Clarke.” 

“Oh, fuck.”


	7. Chapter 7

Thanksgiving, courtesy of Lexa’s unparalleled cooking and organizational skills, is a resounding success. She roasts an enormous turkey, delegates the garlic mashed potatoes to Aden, sautés some asparagus with mushrooms, orders her mom to deal with the stuffing, prepares a green bean casserole in the morning to just throw in the oven, and she and Anya bake three glorious pies the night before. 

She _loves_ her? 

She cooks such a hideous amount of food because she knows most of her friends will show up at some point, knocking on the door with hopeful grins and outstretched hands. Even though they have their own families and meals, they love her food too much to stay away – she’s clearly spoiled them. Anya visits her mom at rehab in the morning and they eat in the afternoon, their kitchen table groaning under the weight of the full platters. 

Nyko and Luna come by around 5, Tris and Art around 6, and Lincoln texts to say that he’s with Octavia but that if he doesn’t get a slice of bourbon pecan pie he will thrash all of them. Lexa wants to ask if Clarke is there too, but doesn’t. 

She’s _in_ love with her? 

Lexa leans against the counter and watches (almost) all of her people in her kitchen and living room, laughing and being loud and eating pie, and feels a rush of affection for them so strong it hurts. Aden, Tris and Art are at the table, laughing uproariously and shooting whipped cream straight from the bottle into their mouths. 

Luna and Nyko are cuddled together on her couch, half-watching the football game on the television, and Anya and her mom are sprawled out on the floor after their second pieces of pie, clutching their stomachs and bemoaning Lexa’s baking. 

Lexa watches all of them but her eyes keep moving, searching for something she can’t name. Her stomach drops when she realizes she’s looking for blonde hair and blue, blue eyes, and feels her absence like a knife to the chest. Why does it feel like Clarke _should_ be there? 

Because she loves her? 

She’s been repeating those words in her head ever since Lincoln stated them, as an obvious fact, but she’s still not sure she’s absorbed them. Or that she believes them. 

Except that’s such a fucking lie, and Lexa’s doesn’t do self-deception anymore so she takes a deep breath and concedes that yes, she does believe them. She _knows_ she does. She’s in love with Clarke and, possibly, alarmingly, has been for a very long time. 

It’s a huge, monstrous emotion and it’s a huge, monstrous risk acknowledging it, and both sensations are carving a bloody swath through her body and Lexa is terrified again. And she is so. Fucking. Tired. Of it. 

She clenches her jaw and grabs onto the counter behind her, knuckles white. _Fuck_ that. 

She is so _done_ with being scared all the time. She is so tired of letting fear dictate her decisions and control what she does with her own life. She’s terrified of _so_ many things – of being open and vulnerable, of getting hurt, of hurting Clarke, of not being good enough, of not knowing the future – and _none_ of those fears have helped her. They’ve held her back, built her a walled-in life of safety and stagnancy and no risk, kept her existing in a state where she can’t look back and can’t move forward because that brings uncertainty into the equation.

For someone who publicly claims to be afraid of nothing and no one, she sure acts like a goddamn chickenshit in the privacy of her own head. 

Lexa leaves her friends and family and goes into her room, closing the door and sitting on her bed with her head in her hands. 

_God,_ she’s been such an idiot. Clarke was right – she’s a fucking coward. Lexa, nonchalant badass motherfucker, is a coward. She slunk away from the intensity of her own feelings, refused to take the plunge into official coupledom, pushed away the girl she loves, and for what? Security? Certainty? That seems like a shitty, lopsided trade to her. 

Does she know she and Clarke will last if they start dating? No. Does she know they won’t end in a flaming pile of wreckage and resentment and loathing? No. But she doesn’t know the opposite, either. 

She feels a strange, unfamiliar sensation in her chest, a kind of weightlessness, and understands a second later that it’s hope. Which promptly drops like a block of cement when she realizes that none of those things are a remote possibility now. Now that she’s hurt Clarke so deeply, made this decision for her, shoved her away in a blaze of terror and insecurity. 

There’s a soft knock on her door and Anya comes in, frowning when Lexa peeks up at her through fingers. 

“I fucked up,” Lexa whispers. 

Anya groans and raises her eyes to the ceiling. “Christ, finally.” She walks over and sits next to her on the bed. 

“I can’t fix it,” Lexa says quietly, putting her hands down. “I can’t make this better.” 

Anya grimaces. “Yeah, failure’s a definite possibility,” she says, patting Lexa’s knee in an awkward, comforting gesture. “But you gotta try, Lex. I mean,” she half-smiles in a bitter sort of way, “if a 46 year-old diehard, inflexible alcoholic can try to get sober, you can try to get the girl back.” 

Lexa sighs, running a hand through her hair. “I have _no_ idea how to do this.” 

“Well, we’re both probably screwed then, cause I got nothing.” 

“Fuck.” 

“Yup.” 

“Shit.” 

“Uh-huh.” 

Anya shoves at Lexa’s shoulder and grins. “Look at us. Me in a committed, healthy relationship, you, pining like a clueless twat and planning some grand, most likely ineffective romantic gesture. Whoda thunk?” 

“You’re _so_ helpful.” 

*** 

The days are a little cooler and shorter, but apart from that, Lexa’s life continues much as it had. She manages to get more hours at the comic store, with December and thus, holiday shopping, beginning. She works every weekday evening and a few hours on Sunday starting right after Thanksgiving, enduring Black Friday but missing the relatively chaotic Small Business Saturday. Anaheim loves its indie comic store, apparently. 

Her mom is suffering through the same customer deluge and increased responsibilities at the grocery store. Both she and Lexa come home later than normal, dropping onto the couch with huffs of exhaustion. Audrey’s normally placid temper snaps easier now, the tension from her job leaking into their home, and they know to give her some space until January rolls around. 

Lexa has her own problems with the new schedule. Her customary routine of self-flagellation in the evening is interrupted, and she can only wake up at 5:30 in the morning to run so many times a week before she realizes, after almost falling asleep in her afternoon classes, that it’s not a tenable solution. So she goes to the gym after work a few times a week, sacrificing her standard homework time and staying up later to finish it. 

She also starts planning Aden’s birthday for the 6th. She and her mom had started, in November, to set a small amount of their earnings aside, so they would have a large enough stash to buy him some decent presents and throw a party. Lexa finds him a video game he’s been drooling over, some soccer cleats, and a new graphic novel that she thinks he’ll like. Her mom gets him a gift certificate for much-needed clothes, a charcoal drawing set (he’s expressed an interest after seeing the sketches done by his hero, Lincoln), and a subscription for an online RPG. 

Lexa tells her crew, and a few other kids she knows Aden hangs out with, when to show up and swears them to secrecy. Her mom, in an uncharacteristic display of sneakiness, regrets to inform Aden that they won’t be able to have a party for him with how tight their budget is. Lexa’s proud of his reaction, as he smiles and assures her he’ll be fine. He’s a good kid. 

Between homework, classes, work, the gym, cooking dinner nightly, and Aden’s party, she doesn’t have a whole lot of free time. Her packed days are a blessing in a lot of ways, though, because she has less time to reflect on how fucked she is. 

She has no idea how to do this. She doesn’t apologize a lot in general, preferring to wordlessly accept her mistakes without acknowledging them to any other human being. This, trying to smooth over a gaping wound that she deliberately and knowingly caused, is an entirely different animal. 

Part of her wants to give up right now, after visualizing what Clarke’s face would look like if she tried to apologize. But, no. That’s something she would have done in the past – weighed the consequences of the risk and decided it wasn’t worth it. Because, if she can convince Clarke how genuinely terrible she feels and that she will never, _ever_ hurt her like that again, the benefits so monumentally outweigh the cost. Of potential public humiliation. And more heart break. 

She still has no idea what to do. She toys with the idea of just showing up at her doorstep with a bouquet, but that feels trite and inauthentic. So she procrastinates and goes along with her life and hopes for inspiration, or even just the serendipity of them seeing each other outside of school. 

Or, at least, she thinks she hopes for that. Until Artigas. 

Aden’s birthday party is a total, gleeful success. The actual 6th lands on a Thursday, so they wait until Saturday to surprise him. Since she was working on his birthday, their mom takes him out that afternoon to get a celebratory ice cream cone, and he almost drops it when he opens the door to a cacophony of shouts and lights and streamers. 

His face is worth everything. The slack-jawed shock, morphing into the biggest grin Lexa’s ever seen, makes everything pale in comparison. He beams throughout the entire thing, hugging everyone multiple times (grabbing Lexa at least four times, and damn, but he’s getting strong), and consuming his weight in the cake Lexa baked. She smiles more widely than she has in awhile too. 

It’s Saturday, exactly a week after that, when they’re finishing with dinner and Lexa’s just starting on the dishes, when they hear a soft, slapping knock on their door. Like someone just pressed a hand to their door and then stopped. 

Aden exchanges a curious look with Lexa and goes over to the door. He opens it and Art falls through, slumped and bloody. There’s a deep cut over his left eye, still bleeding sluggishly, and his face is discolored, swollen and misshapen. He’s clutching his ribs, his eyes are having trouble focusing, his clothes are spotted with blood, and he’s limping on his left knee. 

Lexa feels a huge, freezing spike of panic and rushes over to him, hands fluttering over him, afraid to touch. Anya and her mom follow, kneeling by him. 

“Art!” Lexa says, more steadily than she feels, eyes tracing over the wounds on his face and body. “Art, what happened?” 

He shakes his head, eyelids dropping, and she and Aden drag him over to the couch and prop him up. Lexa feels the terror start to take over, because it looks like he was beaten up by a mob with metal pipes and he needs a hospital _now_ , but takes a deep breath. Panic won’t help him. 

“Anya, call an ambulance,” she orders, pointing at her. “Mom, get us –” 

“No,” Artigas croaks out weakly, arms crossed loosely over his torso. “Quint.” 

Lexa’s terror is abruptly gone, replaced by a rage so huge and eclipsing it takes over her entire body. Her nails dig into her palms and she grinds her jaw, an eruption of hot liquid in her stomach. “What happened?” she says, very carefully. 

“A few of his guys,” he says, and then breathes in and winces. “They were drunk, on the street. They saw me walking home from Tris’s,” Lexa inhales sharply at that but doesn’t interrupt him, “and followed me.” He closes his swollen eyelids, gathering his strength. “Wanted me to sell product at the school. Pistol-whipped me, kicked me when I said no.” 

Lexa exchanges a heated, loaded glance with Anya, who appears to be on the same emotional wavelength as her. Her eyes are livid steel. 

Things like this have happened before, but never to this extent. Most of the times one of them crosses paths with one of Quint or Derrick’s gang, they come back with a black eye and knowledge of a new area to avoid. But this is something else. They’ve never done this much before. 

“Sorry,” Art mumbles. “I know … shouldn’t walk alone … sorry,” his voice trails off, and his eyes close again. Her mom runs to the kitchen to get some ice and Aden leans over Art, checking him. 

“I think he just passed out,” Aden says, in a small, weak voice that sounds nothing like him. “Lexa?” 

Lexa and Anya wordlessly walk a few paces away, leaning close enough that they won’t be overheard. 

“We can’t take him to the hospital,” Anya whispers immediately. “They’ll get the cops involved and we can’t risk that. If we fuck with his guys, Quint’ll come after us. No hesitation.” 

“I know,” Lexa says tightly, glancing at the slumped figure of her friend. Rage is still coursing through her veins, but she ignores it for now. “But he needs medical help right now.” 

Anya hisses a frustrated breath out through her teeth. 

“Shit,” Lexa says suddenly. 

“What?” 

“I know a doctor.” 

Clarke answers on the fifth ring. “Lexa?” she asks. She sounds unsure and angry and shaken, all at once. 

“Please, Clarke, don’t hang up,” Lexa says quickly, and ignores the ache at hearing her voice again. “I need your help. It’s an emergency.” 

Clarke gasps in horrified shock when she hears Lexa explain. Abby Griffin, fortunately, is at home when Lexa calls, because she didn’t have much of a back-up plan if she was on a shift at the hospital. 

“Lex,” she says, and Lexa’s traitorous, stupid body still warms at the nickname, despite everything. “You know the hospital would be a much better place for him. My mom – she just has some basic home medical supplies here.” 

“I know,” Lexa says, shaking her head. “But we can’t take the risk. He _will_ come after us, Clarke.” 

Clarke inhales in a fortifying way. “Okay, of course. We’ll be there as quickly as we can.” 

They move Artigas onto the couch, hovering over his limp form helplessly. Lexa and Anya exchange a few looks, and she knows they’re both thinking of the shotgun Gustus keeps behind the counter at his gym. As a rule, Lexa doesn’t do guns. They don’t have one at the house because the chance of an accident is still much, much higher than the chance of actually needing it, but now, she wishes they did. 

She doesn’t think she’s ever felt a stronger compulsion for violence, for sweet fucking retribution. She sees Art, in his beautiful naiveté, walking home, and Quint’s thugs drunkenly approach him. She can see it go down perfectly, every shot, hit, slap, strike they visit on him. Because, apparently, severely beating up a 14 year-old seemed like the most attractive course of action, for these two or three armed, grown men. 

Lexa’s hands twitch and she has an explicit, detailed fantasy of killing every single person in Quint’s crew. They’re fucking insects. They don’t deserve anything better. She would be completely capable of it right now. 

It’s only about ten minutes before a car screeches up to the curb in front of the house, and Lexa throws open the door as Clarke and Abby half-run up to them. 

Abby doesn’t say anything, just makes a beeline for the figure on the couch. She unslings the gym bag from her shoulder and kneels down next to him, touching his face and moving over his chest, stomach and legs. 

“How long has he been unconscious?” she asks, in a detached and professional voice. She unzips her bag and pulls out a flashlight, opening his eyelids and shining it over his pupils. 

“About 15 minutes,” Lexa answers. She’s surprised to hear how calm her voice sounds, considering the way her stomach is churning. 

Abby is a compact, lithe woman, sharp cheekbones and angles. She is working efficiently, dispassionately, and Lexa is grateful for her calmness as she takes out a stethoscope and checks his heartbeat and lungs. But she doesn’t see much of her in the girl standing next to her. 

Part of her brain, the small portion not fantasizing about murder, is quietly panicking at the fact of Clarke’s proximity. They’re closer than they have been in months, and when Lexa breathes in, she can smell her. Honeysuckle and spice and that incomparable, intoxicating mixture of scents that is all _Clarke_. 

She angles her head, just the smallest bit, to see her profile, and lets herself run eyes over it once before looking back at Artigas. Clarke is holding herself tightly, body uncomfortable and uncertain. Lexa knows it’s her fault and lets the guilt she feels fan the anger. 

Abby is lifting up Art’s shirt to probe gently at his ribs, and suddenly he’s snapping his eyes open, grunting in pain. Abby puts gentle hands on his arms, holding him in place. 

“Art, it’s okay,” Aden is murmuring, putting a hand out to grasp his shoulder too. “She’s here to help.” 

“I’m Dr. Griffin,” Abby says, looking at his wide, frightened eyes. “You’re not at the hospital, Artigas, okay? You’re at …” she looks around at them with a question. 

“You’re with us,” Lexa picks up, heart twisting at the fact that Clarke’s mom doesn’t even know her name. She goes over to put herself in Art’s line of sight. “You’re safe here, buddy. Okay? Just let her work.” 

Art slumps back and nods, reassured. Abby continues her ministrations, apologizing when she hits a tender spot and he winces in pain. She asks him questions about himself while moving his knee, performing a few checks on his reflexes and memory. 

It’s a few more minutes of everyone standing around, watching Abby work, before Anya walks over to Lexa, shifting her eyes towards Clarke quickly before grasping her arm and pulling her over to a corner again. 

“Lex, what are you thinking?” she asks, very quietly. “I know that look.” 

Lexa doesn’t say anything, just stares back at her, crossing her arms. 

Anya’s nostrils flare, her throat bobbing. “You think I don’t want that too? You think I wouldn’t go over there with pruning shears right now if I could get away with it?” 

“They went too far this time, Ahn,” Lexa says, just as quietly. “They’re just gonna keep doing it.” 

“Unless what?” she asks, eyes narrowing. 

“Unless we stop them.” 

“No, Lexa,” Anya growls at her, loudly enough that several heads in the room turn towards them, Clarke’s included. “What the fuck are you thinking? I know you feel responsible for Art, for Tris – but that won’t accomplish anything.” 

“No?” Lexa spits out, not bothering to keep her voice down either. “I think it would accomplish a good amount, actually. Make sure that,” she points at Artigas, her hand trembling, “would _never_ happen again to any of us.” 

“So, what?” Anya asks incredulously, body shifting to move in front of Lexa. “You want to go Scarface on their asses, is that it? You wanna roll up there and take them out, just you?” 

“Only if you make me do it alone,” Lexa says, quietly, heatedly. “They just have to realize that fucking with us is more trouble than it’s worth.” She points again at Art. “Do you see that? His blood? You _really_ want to just walk away from that without trying to get some of theirs?” 

Anya lets out a disgusted scoff. “You know the only thing you’re gonna get if you do this? Killed or arrested.” She jerks her head at Aden and her mother. “You want to leave them like that? On some fucking idiotic suicide mission?” 

Lexa feels a fresh surge of anger. She opens her mouth to say something else, something she’ll probably regret, when a soft voice behind her says, “Lexa?” 

She swallows her retort and turns to see Clarke step close, frowning. “Are you talking about what I think you’re talking about?” 

Lexa looks away. There’s a maelstrom of conflicting emotions inside her. Guilt from Clarke, anger at Anya and rage towards Quint, defensiveness at her friend’s accusations, relief at Clarke’s presence, and the sensation that she doesn’t have to explain herself to fucking anyone. She feels hot and cold at the same time. 

“Lex,” Clarke starts, shaking her head. “Please.” 

She snaps her gaze up at that. Clarke has no reason, _none_ , to plead with her. What does it mean that she is? 

Lexa stares at her, directly for the first time. Her hair is pulled into a messy bun, proof of the speed she left the house, and she’s in a grey hoodie and sweatpants. She looks soft and comfortable, except her face is lined with anxiety and her eyes, that clear, lucid blue, are full of fear. Lexa doesn’t know what to say. 

Clarke licks her lips nervously and takes another step towards her. She reaches out a tentative hand and places it on Lexa’s shoulder. Lexa exhales shakily and feels herself go almost limp at her touch, shocked at the intensity of that simple contact. Clarke’s hand is warm and strong, and it tethers her. 

“Please,” Clarke whispers again. “Please, don’t do this.” Lexa sees her throat move as she swallows. “If you care about me at all, listen to me and don’t do this.” 

Lexa holds her gaze, anger draining out of her like water leaking through a sieve, and breathes her in. 

“I – I …” Lexa tries to get out. “I have to do something,” she whispers eventually. 

“We’ll figure something out, okay?” Clarke says quietly, and squeezes Lexa’s shoulder. “Together.” She shifts her eyes to Anya. “But Anya’s right. This isn’t the way to do it.” 

Lexa bites her lip, the residual effects of fury and adrenaline leaving her shaky and exhausted. She nods and Clarke gives her a small, encouraging grin. 

Abby clears her throat, and Lexa jerks, remembering they’re in a room full of people. 

“Is he okay, Mom?” Clarke asks, dropping her hand. Lexa feels the warm imprint of her palm like it’s still there. 

Abby sighs and stands up, putting a gentle, comforting hand on the top of Artigas’s head. She looks down at him, genuine concern shining through her professional role. “He has a mild concussion, a few cracked ribs, some deeper cuts on his face, and a sprained knee, but, as far as I can tell, no internal bleeding or anything more serious.” 

Everyone exhales in pure relief, Aden smiling at Art and receiving a faint grimace in return. 

Lexa steps away from Clarke and Anya and towards Abby. “Thank you so much,” she says weakly, holding the woman’s eyes. “I really don’t know what else we would’ve done.” She looks back at Clarke. “Both of you – thank you.” 

Abby nods. “I can’t say this is an ideal situation, and obviously my professional opinion is that he should be in a hospital. But, I understand you’re doing your best here.” She holds a hand and Lexa takes it, shaking it. “I’m Abby, by the way. I don’t think we were properly introduced.” 

“Lexa,” she says. God, this is not how she imagined meeting Clarke’s mother. 

Abby shifts her eyes to her daughter’s in a fast, curious glance that Lexa can’t entirely read, and then she focuses on Art again. “Well, Lexa, he’s going to need a lot of rest, both physical and mental. He needs to stay as still as possible for those ribs to heal properly. I’d advise wrapping them up to minimize movement, but not too tightly. The concussion is going to leave him tired and potentially disoriented, so look out for that.” 

She reaches into her gym bag and pulls out a roll of white gauze and a bottle of hydrogen peroxide, handing them to Lexa. “Put peroxide on his cuts and bandage them – none of them need stitches, fortunately. And keep his knee elevated and iced, twenty minutes on, twenty minutes off, four times a day.” 

Lexa is nodding continuously, absorbing all of it. “I’ll make sure.” She leans to the side to peer at him. He looks marginally more comfortable. “He’ll stay here tonight and then we’ll drive him to his parents’ tomorrow.” 

Abby nods, giving Lexa a small but sincere smile, and starts gathering her supplies. She throws the strap of the bag over her shoulder and starts for the door. “I’ll want to see him again in a week, okay?” She pauses, hesitating. “He should try to stay out of school for at least the next five days, if that’s possible.” 

That gets an actual smile from Artigas. It’s horrifying-looking, with his bloody and distorted face, but the feeling from it is pure Art. Lexa smiles back, feeling it stretch her face in unfamiliar ways, and shakes her head at him. 

Abby opens the door and steps out. Clarke shoots one last glance at Lexa before following her out, and she feels like something is slipping just out of her grasp. She opens her mouth but nothing comes out, and she turns to Anya in a dumb, desperate panic. Anya gives her a look like she’s insane and points at Clarke, clearly communicating what needs to be done. 

Lexa runs out the half-open door before she can second-guess herself again, calling out, “Clarke!” as she jogs down her front steps. 

The other girl turns around, carefully neutral expression on her face. Abby makes a questioning noise, and Lexa hears Clarke say, “I’ll just be a second, Mom.” 

She reaches her just as Abby climbs into the front seat, closing the door so they have at least the appearance of privacy. 

Clarke looks at her, soft and expectant and beautiful in the low light, and Lexa chokes on nothing. 

“Can we talk?” she hears herself ask, somehow making words. “Sometime soon?” 

Clarke’s eyes narrow at that, almost imperceptibly, bringing a tinge of unease and displeasure to her expression. It drops Lexa firmly back to reality. No matter how they connected tonight, or how easy it felt, Lexa treated Clarke like shit just a few months ago, and neither of them should forget that. 

“Please?” she adds softly, echoing Clarke’s pleas tonight. “I just – let me say what I need to you.” 

Clarke frowns and, for a few endless seconds, Lexa’s sure she won’t agree. That she’ll walk away without another word and that’ll be it – the culmination of everything they’ve had.

But then she nods. “Yeah,” she says shortly, her voice giving away nothing. 

Lexa nods back, giddy with relief and sure her face reflects it. “Okay. Good.” 

Clarke looks at her with an unreadable, measuring expression for a few moments and then turns back to the car. “Goodnight, Lexa.” 

“Night, Clarke,” Lexa responds, lifting a hand when the car drives away. 

She walks back into the house in a slow, exhausted daze. She’s been through a roller coaster of emotions tonight, and she just feels drained right now. 

The impotent anger, though decreased to manageable levels, is still there, and it flares when she’s confronted with Art’s face again. Aden’s setting up the air mattress in the living room when she walks in, the soft hissing of its inflation echoing through the room as her brother comes in carrying sheets and blankets. 

“Mom crashed. I’m gonna take the couch and give Art the mattress,” Aden says, kneeling. “Anya can sleep in my room.” 

Lexa feels another rush of pride for her sweet, thoughtful brother. 

“Thanks, Ade,” Anya answers. She’s looking questioningly at Lexa, though, and raises an eyebrow when their eyes meet. 

“I’m going to talk to her,” Lexa answers. Anya smiles and Aden does a dramatic fist pump. Lexa rolls her eyes and walks up to the other girl. 

“I – I’m sorry about tonight,” Lexa says quietly. 

Anya is shaking her head before she finishes. “Nothing to be sorry for.” She gives her a crooked smile. “I was right there with you, Lex.” She cocks her head. “Conversation to be continued, okay?” 

Lexa nods, feeling a strange mixture of hope and muted rage. They’ll do something, even if it’s not a fucking massacre, and it’ll be for Art. 

She’s lying in her bed later that night, staring up at her ceiling and seeing Clarke’s worried face. She was worried for _her_ , she fully realizes. If you care about me at all, she had said, like she had hoped it was true. She has no idea how true. Clarke might have been the only person who could’ve calmed her down tonight. 

Lexa’s known she was capable of terrible things for a long time now. It’s just a little kernel of self-insight she developed when she got into fights – knowing that she could do something much worse and choosing not to. Tonight, _tonight_ was the first time she could feel her finger tightening around that trigger. Without Clarke there, she really might have snatched that shotgun from Gus’s and gone through Quint’s crew, person by person. 

She hopes not, though. Even though every human being in there deserves that and worse, Anya’s right too – it wouldn’t be a smart move. She’d end up dead or in prison, and her mom and Aden don’t need that. They’ll have to think of another way to deal with this situation, because it won’t stand. Quint’s little shits don’t get to assault innocent teenagers with impunity. Blood for blood, even if it’s not literal. 

Lexa rolls over, trying to push down her still-simmering anger. To calm herself down, she starts composing potential speeches for Clarke, apologies and confessions and poetry. She lets her mind just swim lazily, traveling to places where Clarke forgives her and generously decides to express it through dominating sex, cause, _goddamn_ if that last time wasn’t the hottest thing Lexa had ever experienced. And even with the night’s shitstorm and emotional whiplash, that thought gets her to sleep with a half-smile on her face. 

*** 

**_Lexa:_ ** _hey, when do you have some free time this week? if you’re still open to talking with me_

She sends it with a fluttery mess in her stomach. It’s completely possible Clarke’s thought better of it since Saturday, a few days ago, and will either ignore her or shoot her down. She exhales in relief when Clarke answers back within minutes.

**_Clarke:_ ** _how about I pick you up from the store one night. what works for you_

**_Lexa:_ ** _tomorrow? 8?_

**_Clarke:_** _okay_  

It’s kind of ridiculous how happy she feels from that one word, even with the situation with Art looming over their heads. Because, besides going in with a fully-equipped army, she and Anya and the rest of her group don’t have any other ideas on how to deal with Quint. Retaliation is too big a concern to dismiss, and his crew has both an unknown number of people and access to guns. 

But Lexa refuses point-blank to consider letting it go, when Nyko tentatively brings it up. 

“Blood for fucking blood,” she snarls, and no one is stupid enough to challenge her when she’s like that. 

Art is healing, at least. His parents, a sweet, struggling couple named Trent and Rosa, were, understandably, furious and scared when they saw Lexa helping him up their steps on Sunday morning. It took thirty minutes of Lexa’s patient exposition before they relented, wanting to call the cops or follow the more self-reliant route Lexa herself was considering. But, they had lived in the area long enough to understand Lexa’s reasoning, even if they liked it about as much as her. 

“I promise,” she said, meeting both of their eyes steadily. They looked at her with helpless frustration, but also a measure of trust. Lexa isn’t underestimated in their neighborhood, regardless of her age. “Quint won’t just get away with it. I promise – he’ll feel it when we get him back.” 

They nodded and helped Artigas to his room, where he slept for six hours straight and woke up ravenous, only able to eat soup with the state of his jaw. She keeps in touch with his parents over the next few days, and as his face begins healing, Art is able to slowly eat more substantial food. He sleeps and stays in his bed, watching television and flipping through the comics Lexa brings him. She visits him on Monday and Tuesday evening, finding him progressively more cheerful. His resilience is astounding to her. 

Her Wednesday shift at the comic store is, thankfully, busy, full of clueless mothers and fathers coming in and searching for specific graphic novels their kids requested. Most of them are sweet in their ignorance, but there are always those one or two customers who waltz right in and proceed to take a steaming dump on Lexa’s chest, contemptuous of everything and everyone in the store. She just smiles placidly through it, fantasizing about defenestrating them. 

Clarke’s car is sitting outside the shop when she locks up, idling with its lights on. Lexa opens the passenger door and slides in, into an atmosphere that tightens and flexes as they drive off. Clarke’s face is stiff and composed as she keeps her gaze forward, focused on the road. Lexa sits and clutches her bag to her chest, self-conscious and suddenly sure this is a terrible idea. She’s gonna crash and burn, she knows it. 

“How’s Artigas?” Clarke’s voice is quiet, but comes out loud in the tense silence. They turn onto the winding, rangy road leading into Peralta Hills. 

“Doing a lot better,” Lexa responds, eternally grateful that Clarke started the conversation. “His face is healing and he’s sleeping a lot. His breathing is easier with his ribs, too.” 

Clarke nods, her expression softening a fraction, and the silence envelops them again. Lexa quietly thanks all of the deities she knows when they pull into Clarke’s garage and step out of the car, out of the box of mute tension. She wasn’t entirely sure they were going to Clarke’s house until they arrived, thinking that Clarke might want somewhere a little less intimate. 

She walks into her kitchen and chokes on the air, remembering the door, and the counter, and the couch, and _shit_. This place is fucking saturated with sex. She wonders if Clarke is thinking the same thing as the other girl’s cheeks pink and she sits down on the chair at the island. She looks at Lexa with a steady, expectant expression, and Lexa shifts uncomfortably, grasping her backpack and standing in front of the door. No, don’t look at the door. 

Clarke crosses her arms and raises her eyebrows, clearly expressing her impatience. Lexa inhales, trying to find the courage that made her want to do this in the first place. 

“I’m sorry,” she says finally. Seems like a good place to start. “I’m sorry I hurt you so much. I’m sorry for the terrible things I said, and the way I didn’t trust you, and the way I made it about your sexuality.” 

Clarke’s face doesn’t change, but she seems to be listening. Yes, yes, good. 

“I’m sorry I used my own insecurities to make you feel like shit.” Lexa takes a deep breath. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you how I felt in the first place, when we first started this.” She gestures between them, not knowing how to label them. 

Clarke’s face smooths out at that a fraction, hesitantly curious. “Why didn’t you?” she asks quietly, after a moment, like she wanted to ask something else. 

“I was scared,” Lexa says, voice turning pleading without her permission. She drops her bag on the floor and takes one small step closer, still respecting the distance Clarke has put between them. “You terrify me, Clarke,” she whispers, trying not to curl into a protective ball at the confession of weakness. 

“Why?” she asks softly. 

“Because I’m in love with you.” 

There’s a moment of sheer silence after she says it. A moment where Lexa wants to run away or sink into the floor, because she feels naked and ridiculous and like she just handed her heart to Clarke on a platter to smash to the ground. This is pure fear, right here. This is total exposure and vulnerability and she almost can’t stand it. 

She raises her eyes to meet Clarke’s and the other girl’s face is still and frozen. And then it shifts as the words sink in, and it seems like Lexa’s confession doesn’t exactly accomplish everything she was hoping. Because instead of her expression changing to understanding and tenderness, it turns sour, full of incredulity and fury. 

“You – you think you can just say that and everything’s okay?” Clarke says, slow and fierce. Her eyes are flashing. “Do you think you can use that as some pathetic justification for acting like you did? You don’t get to tell me that after what you said to me on the beach, after ignoring me for the last six  _f_ _ucking_ weeks. You don’t get to use that as an excuse – like it explains _anything_.” 

Her voice is quivering at the end, and Lexa can see, with a wrench in her chest, a deep well of pain spill into her anger. 

“I know _nothing_ is okay, Clarke,” Lexa says imploringly. “I know – I know it doesn’t make a difference with how I reacted. I know I was a complete asshole, and you have every, _every_ right to tell me to fuck off.” She extends her hands pleadingly. “I just need you to know. You can do whatever you want with it. I – I know I made a huge mistake, Clarke. I just need you to understand that it was _my_ mistake, and that I made it because of my own ridiculous shit.” 

Clarke’s lip curls a little at that, fury still etched into her face. Lexa remembers Raven’s words – that she was one of the first people Clarke trusted after her dad. And she can understand Clarke’s anger around her admission. Love for Clarke is sacrifice and unconditionally caring for someone even if they’re fading away right in front of you, even if they’re five months into chemo and radiation therapy, even if they’re gone. It’s not being alive and well and consciously choosing to run away like a fucking coward. 

Telling her she loves her – it might even have made everything worse. Because – _this_ is what Lexa’s love looks like? Tossing everything away and scrambling for an exit when things get rough? Clarke’s dad only left her because he had no choice. What’s Lexa’s excuse? 

She stands there, in the face of Clarke’s contemptuous ire, and feels a resigned sort of hopelessness. She has no right to be there, asking for her forgiveness after abandoning her for no better reason than her impotent fears. Not after her dad. 

But Lexa makes a decision. She might not deserve to be there, but she is. This is all she has. Clarke could very well shove her out the door in the next few minutes, and she needs to know everything. Lexa’s not holding back. She’s opening herself up completely, and she might get her heart drop-kicked because of it. But they both need to know how much Clarke means to her. 

“You _terrify_ me, Clarke,” Lexa says again, softly. “I ran because I was – I _am_ scared. I’m afraid of getting hurt. I’m afraid of hurting you, or holding you back. I’m afraid of getting you involved in my life when shit like that, with Artigas, happens regularly. I’m afraid that, if we actually dated, we wouldn’t last. I’m afraid I’m not good enough for you.” 

She takes another deep breath. 

“I’m afraid of how much I want you. I’m afraid of how much I care about you.” She looks at the ground, scowling at herself. “So I panicked. I did something monumentally stupid and hurt you, and I hate myself for it. I never wanted to do that, and I will _never_ do it again.” 

She stands there, hands at her side, bare and exposed, and is trembling at the rush of it all. But she can’t regret it. Because Clarke needs to know. 

She chances a look up at Clarke’s face and her stomach drops. It’s unmoving, heavy and dark. Her arms are still crossed and she looks closed off and rigid, indifferent to Lexa’s pronouncements. 

Lexa clenches her jaw, refusing to feel regret for trying, and starts to bend down to pick up her bag. 

“You’re a fucking idiot,” Clarke says tightly, and Lexa pauses, looking up and witnessing something precious and gorgeous. Clarke’s impassive expression is slowly crumbling, emotion leaking through. Her eyes (her beautiful, beautiful eyes – god, Lexa’s missed them) are bright and wet, and she sees her lower lip quiver. 

Lexa stops dead. “Yes,” she agrees. 

Clarke huffs out a frustrated breath and looks into a corner, like she’s angry at herself for exposing so much sentiment. She uses the heel of her hand to wipe under her eyes. 

“Jesus, Lex – you think I’m not scared, too?” she says, face twisted in hurt and anger and pleading, and a hint, just a soul-fortifying _hint_ , of empathy. “Do you think it was easy for me – feeling all of that so quickly? We – we just happened so fast. You’re the first girl I’ve ever wanted anything with, and screw you if you can’t see how that changed things for me. In a goddamn big way. And I had to deal with … what happened to my Dad. Knowing that kind of pain is out there, and that I don’t want to experience it _ever_ again.” Clarke stares at her, vacillating between entreating and pure rage. She’s leaning forward in her chair, in her fury. “You _hurt_ me, Lexa. You took whatever we had and you just – you just threw it away. And you made that decision all by your fucking self. You didn’t even _talk_ to me.” 

Lexa feels shame and self-loathing twist in her gut. 

“I know,” she whispers, refusing to look away from Clarke’s burning, accusatory gaze. “I did.” 

A single, solitary tear slips down Clarke’s cheek and she wipes it furiously away. “Fuck,” she mutters. “And fuck you.” 

Lexa doesn’t say anything. She deserves worse. 

Clarke scrunches in on herself, looking at the floor. She looks young and frightened all of a sudden, anger deflating into something more vulnerable. “I’m scared, too, Lex. I’m _still_ scared.” 

“Me too.” Lexa takes one more tentative step forward. She wants to reach out, to comfort a clearly hurting, confused Clarke, but she knows she’d probably get a finger or two broken. 

“Clarke,” she whispers instead. “I’m so _sorry_. Please – I don’t want to lose this. I don’t want to lose you. Please give me another chance.” 

Clarke sucks in a breath and looks up at her. Lexa almost staggers under the sheer plethora of undisguised emotion in her face – still-fiery anger, pain, distrust, bitterness, fear, and underneath it all, a burgeoning tinge of hope. 

She doesn’t move. She just stands and endures it, hoping all of her remorse and love shows. 

“How am I supposed to trust you?” Clarke asks finally, voice a faint wisp. “How do I know you won’t just do it again?” 

“I won’t.” 

Lexa steps forward quickly, before she can second-guess herself. She makes sure she’s holding Clarke’s gaze before sinking to her knees in front of her. 

She grasps Clarke’s wrist, gently tugging it from her tight clutch, and drags it to her own chest, pressing it on top of the rapid thumping of her heart. 

“I’m yours, Clarke,” she says, strong and clear. “I will _never_ hurt you like that again. I’m _yours_.” 

Clarke’s eyes are huge and wet, face wiped almost blank in her shock. She’s looking at Lexa like she’s never seen her before. 

And Lexa … she feels free in a way she never would have anticipated. A sensation of weightlessness comes with this kind of total surrender. She’s handing everything she is to this girl – her body, heart and mind, her insecurities and control, fears and happiness. She’s held onto these things for so long it’s a strange relief to let them go.

“Please, just – tell me what I can do,” Lexa says, releasing Clarke’s wrist. “Tell me what to do to make this okay.” 

Clarke seems to come back to herself at that. She stands from the chair, looking down at Lexa for a beat with a freshly-neutral expression. Then she puts the same hand out, offering it to Lexa. She takes it and rises from her knees, standing from the cold tile floor until they’re a mere foot apart. 

“I need time,” Clarke says shortly. “I can’t promise anything. Okay?” 

Lexa exhales. “I understand. Whatever you need. I’m not going anywhere.” 

There’s a sudden flash of tenderness and fear in Clarke’s eyes as she looks at her. The type of fear Lexa is intimately familiar with – the feeling that comes from stepping off the edge of a cliff and not knowing where you’ll land. She feels hope at that, soaring hope that she’s not fast enough to quash. Maybe, she thinks. 

Clarke wipes her face off, cleaning it both from tears and exposed emotion, and glances at the wall clock. “I need to drive you back – my mom will be home soon.” 

Lexa nods, grabbing her bag from the floor, feeling a strange sense of satisfaction. 

She came and did what she needed to do. She’s almost proud of herself, because that was one of the hardest things she’s ever done. She’s run flat-out until her legs stopped working, fought off three boys larger than her, taken care of her little brother since she was twelve, and mopped up more bloody faces than she can count – and this, this naked honesty, somehow feels like her biggest accomplishment. 

They’re in the car in another silence, lighter than it was but still buzzing, when Clarke speaks again. 

“Do you know who Wells’ dad is?” 

Lexa shoots her a curious look at the non sequitur. Not what she was expecting. “No.” 

“He’s the Deputy Chief of Police in Anaheim.” 

Her eyes widen with recognition. “Clarke …” she starts hesitantly. 

“I know,” she responds quickly, glancing at her. “I know you can’t go to the police over Art. But I’ve known Thelonious since I was three – he’s a good … cop.” Lexa doesn’t miss the slight hesitation at that. “I could go to him, tell him some vague information and not say who I heard it from. He’d accept it, I know he would.” At Lexa’s continued silence, she turns her head to look at her again, brow furrowed. “Think about it, okay? You can have the police’s help without Quint knowing it was you.” She sneers, and Lexa relishes the steel that enters into her face and voice. “Fuck knows he needs to get what’s coming to him.” 

Lexa looks at Clarke, clearly eager for the same thing she wants, and nods slowly. “That’s not a bad idea.” 

“Think about it,” Clarke says again, turning to focus on the road. They don’t speak again until she pulls up to the curb of Lexa’s house. Lexa gives her a small nod before she leaves. 

“I’ll see you around, Griffin,” she says. 

Clarke looks at her, and Lexa swears the corners of her mouth lift up. “See you, Woods.” 

She walks into her house to find Anya and Aden shoveling Pad Thai into their faces. “Sorry, couldn’t wait,” Aden mumbles around a huge quantity of noodles, looking vaguely guilty. 

Lexa just shakes her head. “It’s fine, Ade.” She sits down with them, pulling a carton towards her and digging in with them. 

She sees Aden and Anya exchange a glance before one of them speaks again. “How’d it go?” Anya asks, swallowing. 

Lexa shrugs, not really knowing herself. “I think – as well as it could’ve gone. She needs time, she said.” 

Anya makes a face reflecting Lexa’s own ambivalence. “Could’ve been worse. She could’ve cursed you out and kicked you in the cu –” 

“Ahn!” 

Anya smirks unapologetically and Aden starts laughing, coughing through his noodles. Anya pounds him on the back and Lexa rolls her eyes. Her family, ladies and gentlemen. 

She tells Anya about Clarke’s idea after Aden has gone to bed, both of them sprawled out on the couch and watching re-runs of _The Blacklist_. 

Anya frowns thoughtfully. “Couldn’t hurt to try, at least. It would be on the police to gather enough evidence on him, if Wells’ dad thinks Clarke is a viable source.” She looks at Lexa, eyebrow raised. “It wouldn’t come back on us, at least.” 

Lexa inhales deeply. “Yeah, I was thinking the same thing.” 

Anya squints at her. “You don’t seem very happy with it, though.” 

She tries not to grimace. “I just didn’t want Clarke anywhere near this,” she says, unhappily. “Bad enough that I called her mom to patch Art up.” Lexa clenches and unclenches her fists. “The thought of Quint within 100 miles of her makes me want to kill someone.” 

Anya snorts out a laugh. “Lex, you seem to be fond of that particular urge lately.” 

Lexa inclines her head, conceding the point. “Sometimes, violence is the simplest option.” 

“Although rarely the smartest,” Anya says with a crooked, knowing smile. Lexa looks at her appraisingly. If _Anya_ is criticizing her tendency towards physical solutions, then she should probably take a step back. 

She goes to bed thinking about Clarke. She wonders if and when she’ll try to reach out, or if she’ll consider her options and draw back, decide the risk of Lexa hurting her again outweighs the potential positive outcome. Lexa wouldn’t blame her. 

She’ll wait for her, though. She’ll be patient for her decision because it’s Clarke and there’s no other option. She falls asleep to the image of Clarke’s last expression in the kitchen – tenderness and fear. It feels like hope.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a heads-up for those who might be sensitive to it - there's a brief description of a panic attack in this chapter.

Lexa uncertainly plays with her phone the next morning between classes, indecisive about Quint. It’s their best option, though. She knows it. And the chances of this getting back to Clarke are so small they’re negligible. 

Almost everyone in their neighborhood knows who and what Quint is, and it’s been through sheer luck and law enforcement incompetence that he hasn’t gotten caught yet. She knows he’s served some time for lesser offenses a few years back, but dealing is something different. If it sticks, he’ll be gone for a long time. 

**_Lexa:_ ** _I’m good with you talking to Wells dad_

**_Clarke:_ ** _i’m glad, lex. tell me some info about Quint I can pass on. where + what does he deal, who’s in his crew, what other shit does he get into? tell me everything you know about him_

So she does. She passes on everything she’s ever heard, everything she thinks he’s done, all the people around him. She does it with a lingering feeling of guilt and reluctance, but Clarke wholeheartedly offered her help. We’ll deal with this together, she had said at the house. And maybe it’s time for Lexa to trust her with this too. 

Lexa and Aden visit Art the next few evenings, bringing him his text books and the homework assignments he missed. He smiles at them but frowns pitifully at the books. The bruises on his face are turning a sickly yellow color, making him look like a strange, malformed canary. He’s moving easier on his knee, though, and when he raises his shirt, his torso looks better too – bruises slowly fading and ribs healing. She doesn’t say anything to his parents about Quint, yet. If it pans out, they’ll know soon enough. 

The comic store is busy again on the evenings, and positively overflowing that weekend, with Christmas approaching rapidly. Her mom is constantly exhausted from the store, and Lexa, Aden, and Anya try to be quieter in the mornings when she gets most of her sleep. Lexa reflects that you start looking at Christmas differently when you’re working retail customer service – it becomes a hard-earned race to the finish line, rather than a time to savor. 

Christmas day is usually a pretty laidback affair at their house – a few (usually budget-friendly) presents, some food, lots of friends and family time. It’s typically when Audrey can breathe again from the store, and she takes a few days before going back into the breach that is New Year’s. 

Lexa and Anya drive to the rehab center to pick up Marian on Sunday morning. It’s a beautiful December day in southern California. Crisp and sunny, blue skies and a soft breeze. The mountains in the southeast are bright and clear, and Lexa breathes in when they step out of the car, grateful they live in a place that isn’t under six feet of snow right now. 

Her jaw drops when Marian walks toward them, down the cream-colored hallway of the center. Lexa’s used to seeing her washed-out and trembling when she’s not drunk, shadows and sharp angles on her face. But now, she looks hale and happy, like she’s gotten accustomed to having three square meals a day. Lexa knew she would frequently substitute liquor for actual food, and the few pounds she put on make her look good. 

She gives Anya a hug when she reaches her, and Lexa quietly rejoices when she reciprocates. They drive home, Lexa catching Marian looking out the window with a focused, slightly nervous expression on her face. 

They spend the afternoon cleaning out Anya and her mom’s apartment, tossing the bottles of liquor and wine, clearing out spaces and vacuuming, throwing open all the windows and letting the breeze clear out the faint but persistent smells of vomit and alcohol. Lexa stands up after three hours of scrubbing and re-organizing, wiping the sweat off her face and feeling that certain satisfaction that comes from a deep, successful cleaning. 

Anya drives her back home in the evening, and she gives her a spontaneous hug before she leaves her Toyota, letting go quickly because they rarely show each other such affection. 

“I’m glad she’s back,” Lexa says quietly, and Anya just smiles at her. 

She goes back into the house and cooks Aden chicken Alfredo with brussels sprouts, which he eyes suspiciously before trying one and deciding they’re actually okay. Lexa feels strange without Anya – she had gotten used to her constant presence, and now it feels like there’s an extra empty chair at the table. 

Artigas returns to school the next morning, walking into Arcadia High to the sight of his friends gathered right behind the door, gently patting him and grinning. He smiles too, limping only a little, the beam of his happiness drowning out the way his face is still discolored and misshapen. 

Lexa thinks he’s adjusting almost miraculously well, until they find their usual table at the cafeteria for lunch. Tris comes up behind Art, putting hands on his shoulders and leaning in with a smile, and he jerks violently, upending his entire tray. There’s a pregnant silence as he sits, draped in spaghetti, breathing growing rapid and shallow, his pupils contracting until they’re tiny dots. Lexa maneuvers over to him as quickly as she can, recognizing signs of an impending panic attack. 

She kneels in front of him, clasping his hands and speaking to him in a soft voice, forcing him to focus on her and only her. She whispers reassurances, telling him he’s safe, that no one will hurt him, that they’re here for him, inhaling and exhaling in deliberate, measured breaths. 

He shudders through it, breath catching and not letting go, eyes wide and terrified, blood draining from his face. Lexa glances quickly around the cafeteria, and is grateful that he’s not attracting too many stares. The last thing he needs right now is to be self-conscious about his anxiety. 

When his color returns and his breathing slows, she and Lincoln take him to the bathroom, cleaning him off and keeping up a steady stream of encouragement and support. They both know what an assault like that can do to a person: make them hyper-aware of unpredictable noises and sensations, make them relieve the helplessness and violence of the attack. They exchange glances as Art is drying his face, and she feels her own powerless fury and concern reflected in Lincoln’s normally-impassive face. 

Those fuckers need to _hurt_. 

She knows she shouldn’t, that it’s ineffective and stupid, but she carries around a burning pile of embers where her stomach should be for the entire day, stoking a rage that grows and grows and has nowhere to go. She’s good at hiding it for the most part, getting through her store shift without going apeshit on a customer. 

Lexa’s riding her bike home later that night when she passes two guys, laughing and smoking, on a street a few blocks away from her house. She knows them. Miles and Isaiah. They’re Quint’s. 

She’s seen them around before. Normally she would pedal faster, look away, try to get home without drawing their attention. Now, though – the low fire in her belly mushrooms, pushing a red tide through her and staining her vision. She passes them, feels their eyes shift to her and away, and skids to a stop behind a building. She rips open her backpack and pulls out a loose, white shirt she keeps for running, and wraps it quickly around her face so that only her eyes are showing, hands shaking. 

Lexa sneaks around the building, breathing heavy against the fabric, and sees them a few yards away, taking long drags on their cigarettes and talking. She starts sprinting towards them without another thought, knowing she needs the element of surprise in this. 

They look towards her just as she’s on them, elbowing one of them in the face and shoving her foot into the other’s kneecap, hobbling him. She sees a flash of silver and kicks the pistol out of Miles’ hand, hearing it sliding away on the pavement and sinking a fist into his stomach. He crouches over, gasping, and she blocks a wild punch from Isaiah with her forearm, executing a roundhouse kick into his cheekbone and feeling it give under her boot. 

When she walks away from them, minutes later, they’re both on the ground. Isaiah is groaning weakly, hands over his bloody face, and Miles isn’t moving, splayed out. She’s pretty sure that last right hook knocked him unconscious. She unwraps the shirt from her head when she gets back to her bike, seeing the white tainted with a few splatters of blood, and bares her teeth in a feral grin. The monster in her stomach quiets, and she pedals back home feeling calmer than she has in weeks. 

She sleeps like a baby. 

*** 

Christmas is that Friday, so the students pour out of the school on Wednesday to a chilly, grey sky, eager to get home and immediately start doing nothing for the next week. Lexa, exhaustingly, goes right to the store, thanking the retail gods that she only needs to do this for a few more days. Of course, there are always the post-Christmas returns and belated present-seekers, but these next two days – these are the worst. 

She staggers out four hours later, her boss, Bill, clapping her on the shoulder in a congratulatory sort of way. He’s been with her most evenings, overseeing the holiday hours. 

When she rides home now, she makes sure to take a different route every time, heart seizing whenever she sees figures on the sidewalks. Fortunately, she hasn’t seen any more of Quint’s crew, because she’s not sure if they would recognize the teenage girl on a bike as the one who beat the shit out of them. But she’s not willing to take that chance. 

She checks her phone for the hundredth time that night, obsessively like she’s been doing for the last week, hoping against hope for a text from Clarke. Lexa sighs when she doesn’t see anything, reminds herself again that even the conversations they’ve already had were more than she deserved, and goes to make them dinner. 

She wakes on Christmas morning to Aden yelling her name from the living room, his voice echoing around the house. She grumbles and rolls out of bed, sitting on the couch bleary-eyed but smiling with her mom at Aden’s continuous enthusiasm. She hopes he never grows out of this. 

They exchange presents (Lexa gets some new sci-fi books and running shoes), cook an enormous ham in the afternoon, and eat dinner with Anya and Marian, who come over. Lexa’s mom is effusive and warm towards Marian, serving them all water and ignoring the bottle of cabernet in the cabinet, and she knows she’s trying to make her feel comfortable and wanted. 

Anya looks happier, too, smirk not as sharply sardonic as usual. She ruffles Aden’s hair and beats the crap out of him in his newly acquired _Resident Evil_ game (Lexa sees Clarke whenever Alice pops up on the screen, and has to bite her lip), Marian and Audrey sharing exasperated glances leaning against the doorjamb, and Lexa would feel completely content if not for the small lacuna in her chest where Clarke goes. 

When she’s laying in her bed later, after Anya and Marian have left, she thinks about Clarke in that costume from Halloween, skimpy red dress and combat boots and strapped-on uzis. She hasn’t been touching herself lately, feeling unethical about it somehow. It was fine when Clarke was a distant fantasy, but now that she’s present and, most importantly, _wronged_ , it felt like a squicky betrayal of privacy. But it’s been _so_ long since she’s gotten off, and she can’t get that image of Clarke the zombie-hunter out of her head. 

So she slides a hesitant hand between her legs and finds herself wet and needy. She suppresses a moan and imagines Clarke whispering orders into her ear, bending her over the kitchen counter and pushing into her. Her orgasm, when it comes, is quick and unsatisfying, washing over her and leaving her more wanting than when she started. She bites her knuckles in frustration and checks her phone again. Shit. 

*** 

Both Lexa and her mom go back to work two days after Christmas, Lexa cleaning up after the chaos of last-minute shopping and savoring the relative quiet in the store. 

She gets an invite from Lincoln to attend a New Year’s party downtown, most likely planned by Octavia. But she’s pretty sure Clarke will be there and doesn’t want to make her uncomfortable, so she declines and spends the night with Aden and her mom, watching a marathon of Tarantino movies. 

Audrey leaves after two hours, unable to stomach the amount of gratuitous violence and gore, and Aden and Lexa bravely soldier on, eating the spread of frozen appetizers they randomly selected. Lexa’s favorites are the buffalo wings and mini quiches, and they pause _Django Unchained_ to watch the ball drop in Times Square at midnight. 

She and Aden drift off to their respective rooms at around 1, after they find their heads nodding at the beginning of _Inglorious Basterds_. Lexa tries not to feel like an 84 year-old grandma, sober and home and with her little brother on New Year’s, but fails. 

They return to school on Monday, relatively fresh-faced and prepared for a new round of educational torture. After the holiday break, the entire faculty has apparently decided that the senior class is in imminent danger of indolence and complacency, so Lexa and her classmates are subjected to long-winded monologues about their futures. Their teachers, under the impression that senioritis can be battled through the sheer accumulation of work, pile so much homework on them that first day that Lexa groans. 

Jesus. Welcome to the new year. 

If there’s one bright spot on the horizon, it’s Art’s slow but sure convalescence. Lexa and Aden saw him a few times during the holiday break, and his face and ribs were almost completely healed. Abby had checked in on him again at his own house last week, setting it up through Lexa and speaking to his parents about what the healing process, both physical and mental, might look like. 

Lexa knows from personal experience that walking on egg shells around someone suffering from a trauma just makes them unnecessarily self-conscious, so she and her brother tried to act as normal as possible around him. If they also avoided touching him unless he could see their hands or making any sudden, loud noises – well, they didn’t normally do that anyway. She knows this experience has burrowed deep into him, sinking its claws in and rearing its head at the most inopportune moments, so she keeps an eye on him during school and relives the sound Isaiah’s cheekbone made when her foot smashed into it. 

She hasn’t heard about any backlash from her little vigilante spree, fortunately. It might just be because both guys were reticent about describing their attacker as a 5’5 teenage girl, but that works to Lexa’s advantage. 

Anya tells her, leaning against her lockers on Tuesday morning, that her mom is attending AA meetings three times a week in the evenings after work, and hasn’t even looked askance at a bottle. Lexa knows it’s probably not going to always be this easy and uncomplicated, but the shine of pride and optimism in Anya’s eyes is so welcome that she doesn’t want to say anything to dim it. Maybe Marian really can pull this off. 

She smiles when Raven walks up to both of them, sliding an arm around Anya’s waist and kissing her softly. Lexa tries not gape in shock when Raven inclines her head, very slightly, at her. Well, _damn._ Not just Clarke who might be thawing towards her, then. 

Lexa gets back on her normal work schedule, and spends that Wednesday running the crap out of the school track. She almost cries in relief when she puts on her light running clothes and starts a slow jog, because she needs this like she needs oxygen and the holidays were so goddamn chaotic. It’s a kind of meditation for her, immersed in her own abilities and drowning in Chris Cornell’s croon, moving to a steady rhythm and becoming reacquainted with her own body. When she stretches on the grass afterwards, sweaty and panting and satisfied, she feels momentarily calm. 

A week of normalcy passes. Lexa goes through her typical routine of school, work, jogging, boxing, and Aden, and thinks about Clarke every goddamn day. 

She wonders if the other girl thinks of her as much. She wonders if they’re hopeless – if she caused such irrevocable damage that she’ll forever elicit bitterness and resentment in Clarke’s mind. Somedays, she feels optimistic. She thinks about the way Clarke looked at her before everything, with tenderness and reverence, and imagines that look crossing her face again. 

Somedays, she thinks about how Clarke’s lip quivered on the beach, the unadulterated fury in her eyes, the way she folded into herself in her kitchen, and she thinks there’s no fucking _way_ Clarke is ever going to approach her again, no matter how many declarations of love she tosses out. Because, in the end, words are still poor substitutes for actions, and her actions have already spoken volumes. 

Aden gets a job in the second week of January, bussing tables a few days a week at the local Applebee’s, and Lexa and her mom take him to a county fair to celebrate that weekend. They wander through the throngs of teenagers, kids and families, scents of fried dough and gasoline in the air, and contemplate the rides that look the least hazardous. They try and fail to win massive stuffed animals, eat terrible, artery-clogging fair food, and nervously laugh their way through a rickety Ferris wheel. 

Lexa thinks that Clarke would have enjoyed it. She could’ve spent time with her mom and little brother, traded kisses with Lexa between bites of cotton candy and churros while enduring Aden groaning in impatience, and clung to each other on twirling, vomit-inducing rides. If she hadn’t fucked up so royally. 

Clarke texts her for the first time that Sunday, when the Woods family is regretting the quantity of chili fries consumed the day before. Lexa’s heart leaps into her throat when she sees the notification on her phone, and she opens it with slightly trembling fingers. 

**_Clarke:_ ** _did you see this NYT article? about how graphic novels are starting to be at the forefront of social justice issues and artistic creativity. they mention the one you gave me, the monster one_

There’s a link under her text, and Lexa tries to read it, she really does. But her face keeps cracking into a wide, dumb smile and she can’t focus on the words because Clarke _reached out to her_. Voluntarily. Deliberately! With words and thoughtfulness and the beginning of an actual conversation. 

**_Lexa:_ ** _nyt knows what’s up. graphic novels are starting to be a lot better about being inclusive and exploratory of important social issues. did you like the monster one?_

**_Clarke:_ ** _haven’t read it yet_

And Lexa’s heart sinks. Because of course she hasn’t. She recommended it at the store just days before Halloween, and of course Clarke didn’t pick it up after that because it would just remind her of the beach and Lexa’s idiocy. 

She doesn’t respond after that because she senses a renewed coolness to Clarke’s words, and wants to give her whatever space, literal and metaphorical, she needs. 

She stays behind at school that Wednesday again, needing to run – both as a form of self-castigation and as a way to stop thinking so damn much. She’s coming around one of her last laps on the track, trying to simply power her way through the sensation of her legs becoming limp noodles, when she sees a figure, standing by her bag on the field. 

Lexa slows down, her already rapid heartbeat skyrocketing when she realizes that it’s Clarke, beautifully casual in her paint clothes, hands shoved into the pockets of her jean cut-offs. Her mouth goes dry when she recognizes the shorts as the same ones she shoved her hand down that day in the studio. 

She comes to a stop in front of Clarke, panting and crouching slightly. Clarke gives her a small smile and tosses her a towel. 

“Hi,” Lexa says breathlessly, grabbing the towel and pressing it to her face, wiping off four emotionally-wrought miles of perspiration. 

“Hey,” Clarke responds, and Lexa is delighted to catch her gaze roaming her body, lingering on her arms, bared by a sleeveless shirt, and thighs. She does it quickly, before apparently realizing her mistake and snapping her eyes back to Lexa’s, a soft blush suffusing her cheeks. 

“Are you working on a new piece?” Lexa asks after a beat, acknowledging the awkwardness of the situation while toweling off her neck and forearms. 

Clarke nods, handing her the water bottle on the ground without Lexa asking, and she takes a grateful swig. 

“You know,” Clarke says, looking down, one hand still in her shorts pocket, “I’ve been trying to paint something different these past few months.” 

Lexa frowns a little, confused. “Different how?” 

“Different than your face.” 

Lexa swallows too much and splutters gracefully, water trickling down her chin. She wipes it off with her other hand as surreptitiously as possible and tries not to look a now-smirking Clarke in the eye, her whole face flushing. 

“Oh,” she says finally, because how the hell else is she supposed to respond? “How … how’s that going?” 

“Terribly,” Clarke says, amusement on her face slowly fading. “Your little alternate-dimension twin won’t let me paint anything else.” 

“I – I’m sorry?” 

“Well, it’s not _her_ fault,” Clarke says, arching an eyebrow. “Your face has just seemed particularly unappealing to me the last few months.” 

Lexa stares at the ground, her gut churning with guilt and discomfort. 

Clarke sighs. “I’m sorry.” 

Lexa snaps her head up at that, eyes widening. “You … you’re apologizing to _me_?” 

Clarke crosses her arms in front of her chest, an unconsciously protective gesture. “It’s not fair to you,” she says, frowning. “It’s not fair that you apologized, and I choose to come out here to talk to you and just end up insulting you.” 

Lexa shrugs. “I deserve it.” 

Clarke narrows her eyes. “No, you don’t,” she says, slowly and firmly. “It’s my decision now, whether or not to keep this going, and I don’t have to keep punishing you while I make it.” 

Lexa wipes off the back her neck with the towel and doesn’t say anything, watching Clarke as she shifts on her feet. 

“How’ve you been?” she eventually asks, tentative hope in her blue eyes meeting Lexa’s. 

Lexa fidgets, smoothing out her ponytail. “Um, I’ve had better days, honestly. With Anya’s mom –” 

“Yeah, Raven told me about that,” Clarke interjects, sympathy crossing her face. 

Lexa nods. “It hasn’t been easy, for either of them. But I’ve known Marian for years, and this is the first time she’s really committed to something like this. So … I’m hopeful.” She smiles wryly. “Anya isn’t. But that’s mainly because Anya thrives on pessimism like other people need sunlight.” 

Clarke smiles, too. Not her customary, gut-punching, beam of light one, but a smile nevertheless. It makes Lexa ache. “I’d say pass along my regards to her, but I think we both know that would be a terrible idea.” 

Lexa smiles sheepishly. 

“And Art?” 

Lexa raises one ambivalent shoulder. “Better,” she answers shortly, not wanting to get into his mental state. 

There’s a beat, where both of them shuffle uncomfortably and stare at the ground, before Lexa tries to salvage the moment. 

“Aden got a job,” she says into the stillness of approaching dusk. “At the Applebee’s on 82nd and Broadway. He puts on this jaded air, but I think he’s actually pretty excited about it.” 

Clarke’s grin is wider, warmer this time. “I’ll have to go visit him.” 

“He would love that,” Lexa says, honestly, because Aden’s crush on Clarke rivals her own. 

Clarke’s smile grows before she jerks a thumb behind her. “Well, I think this has been sufficiently awkward for both of us.” Lexa grins. “I’m gonna go back to work on my piece. The Commander won’t paint herself.” 

Lexa tilts her head curiously. “The – who?” 

Clarke is suddenly a brilliant shade of red, avoiding Lexa’s gaze. “Oh. _Shit_.” 

“That’s what she’s called? The Command –” Lexa cuts herself off, eyes widening, when she remembers a certain post-coital discussion around Clarke’s tendency to take control during sex. Commander Clarke, she had called her. 

“ _Oh,_ ” Lexa says stupidly, also flushing. “That’s why you were laughing – cause that’s her …” her voice trails off into embarrassed silence. 

Lexa’s not even sure who she’s embarrassed for, but her color might have something to do with the deluge of remembered sensations from that night, of Clarke whispering in her ear that she can’t come without her permission. She clenches her legs together. 

“I’m going to leave now,” Clarke mumbles into her chest. “I’m going to leave and pretend the last part of this conversation never happened.” 

And she turns around and strides off, face still glowing. Lexa doesn’t even wait until Clarke enters the school again before bursting into laughter, enjoying Clarke’s discomfiture and the strange, coincidental intersection of her doppelganger and their sex life. 

She can barely make out Clarke flipping her off without turning around, and it makes her laugh harder, bending over and clutching her stomach. Commander Lexa, she says in her head, after the door closes behind Clarke. She likes it. 

*** 

Clarke joins them at their usual table at lunch on Friday with Octavia and Raven, sitting down with them with little fanfare and a small nod towards Lexa. She smiles at Tris and Artigas, asking how he’s doing, and passes the hour with brief, meaningful eye contact with Lexa and ease around the rest of her friends. They’re all happy to see her. Aden, especially, approaches levels of teenage boy hysteria that amuse Lexa to no end. 

The next week passes by much the same as last, with the addition of a more corporeal, less imaginary Clarke in her life. 

Clarke sits with them more frequently at lunch, speaking directly to Lexa a few times and making her stomach flutter. She comes down to visit Lexa again on her usual Wednesday run, their conversations becoming less stilted and charged. Lexa can’t help but focus on the small splash of yellow paint on the slender line of Clarke’s neck, the way her lips curve and her eyes brighten while they talk. She masturbates furtively in the shower next morning, cries muffled into her forearm. 

Clarke texts her on Friday evening, at around 8pm. Lexa’s heart does its usual graceless, acrobatic flop when she sees her name, face stretching into an unconscious grin. She sits up straighter on the couch, _LOST_ temporarily forgotten, fingers hovering over the notification. 

**_Clarke:_ ** _hey. you wanna hang out some time next week?_

Lexa’s stomach explodes in a flurry of small fireworks. She barely suppresses pumping her fist into the air victoriously, but glances at Aden sitting next to her and rethinks it. Her first instinctive response is full of capitalization, exclamation points, and possible obscenities, so she types out a few different answers until she finds one that’s not _too_ eager. 

**_Lexa:_ ** _I’d love to. if it’s not too much, I can make you dinner at my house?_

**_Clarke:_ ** _sounds suspiciously like a date_

Lexa starts panicking. It was too much. She can’t discern Clarke’s tone from the text – she could be being playful or she could actually be irritated at Lexa’s presumption. She types out a few responses without sending them and begins sweating. 

**_Lexa:_ ** _it doesn’t have to be. we can do whatever you feel comfortable with. we could just grab some coffee?_

**_Clarke:_ ** _oh no no you’re not getting out of this that easily. your cooking reputation precedes you, bobby flay. i wanna be awed_

She breathes an audible sigh of relief. 

**_Lexa:_ ** _one awe-struck clarke griffin, coming right up. how about next friday?_

**_Clarke:_ ** _sounds good. see you at 7, woods_

Lexa is grinning unabashedly by the end of the conversation. This is happening. Clarke is talking to her and planning an ambiguously-labeled event and doesn’t hate her. They’re going to have a casual dinner and conversation and Lexa is going to make sure Aden is far, far away in case it leads anywhere else (but she’s not planning on it). 

She feels a momentary stab of panic at inviting her over to her own house, but this is necessary. If she wants to be all-in with this, she needs to be able to show Clarke where she comes from without turning into an insecure, posturing mess. She wants to invite Clarke into all parts of her life, and that includes her own home and neighborhood. 

Lexa goes back to school on Monday with the distinct feeling that this week is actually 15 days long and Friday is a cruel, cruel apparition. She’s already planning the three- or four-course meal she wants to cook, and Aden was informed of his imminent absence the second Clarke stopped texting her. He’s going to stay over at Artigas’s house, which is a good thing for both of them anyway. 

Anya comments on her increasing twitchiness as the week goes on, and Lexa blushes and shoves her into the lockers. She laughs knowingly, utterly unfazed, and teases Lexa as her nerves and anticipation grow the closer Friday gets. Lexa, for her part, attempts to bludgeon the tension out of her body by sparring with Lincoln after her shift on Thursday. He _annihilates_ her, taking advantage of her lack of focus and delivering a perfectly-timed right hook that sends her sprawling to the ground. Generously, he fails to mention this to Anya. 

Lexa gets her mom to bring home one of the pricier portions of ground beef, plum tomatoes and a fresh baguette on Thursday too, and double-checks her shift (she won’t get home until around 11:30 tomorrow so that’s plenty of time). She also reminds Aden that if he’s not gone by 7:01 she will physically eject him from his own house. 

She gets home after school on Friday and cooks and cleans for the next three hours, shifting Aden periodically around as one would a vase on a table you’re trying to wipe down. 

Lexa can’t do anything about the threadbare holes in the couch, or the water stains on the ceiling, or the numerous bare patches of carpet, but she can clean the _fuck_ out of her house until those things are less important. She can also make a three-course meal that will occupy Clarke’s attention so much she doesn’t notice. 

She takes a shower at 6:30, putting on a purple sweater over a plaid collared button-up, with her skinny black jeans and simple sneakers. She blow-dries her hair until it’s soft and curling, and even brushes on some eyeliner and eyeshadow. _You’re ready_ , she tells herself firmly in the mirror. _You have marginal social skills, you understand the English language, and you’ve prepared until you cannot prepare anymore._  

Lexa’s dishing out portions of bruschetta onto lightly-toasted pieces of baguette when the doorbell rings, and she almost flings her spoon into space. Aden comes bounding past her, ignoring how she hisses out his name in a furious tone, opening the door and beaming. 

“Hi, Clarke,” he says happily. “You look great.” 

Lexa peeks around the wall separating the kitchen and living room and hears Clarke’s delighted laugh. 

Oh. _Oh._

She does look great. She has a white dress on, ending a good five inches above her knee, one sheer layer covering another more solid length, and a long, olive green jacket over it. Her hair is up in an elegant twist, beautiful silver necklace and dangling earrings adding a splash of glitter to the whole outfit. Her eyeshadow is dark and smoky, tapering slightly off at the end of her eyelids, and her eyes look so _blue_ and bright against the relative lack of color in the rest of her clothing. 

Lexa swallows hard. It feels a lot more like a date now. 

“Thank you, good sir,” Clarke is saying playfully to Aden. “Where are you off to?” she asks, noticing the backpack slung over his shoulder. 

“Art’s,” he replies. “Lexa wanted me out of the house so you guys could –” 

“Clarke!” Lexa says, stepping fully out and interrupting what would undoubtedly be a horrifically undignified statement. 

Clarke’s full-wattage grin is the same slow-gathering tempest Lexa remembers it to be, and when it reaches its maximum, dazzling proportions, she almost staggers. Her stomach feels like it has several live animals in it. 

“You look really nice,” Lexa says in a quieter tone. 

Clarke looks her up and down. “You, too,” she says, masterfully toeing the line between platonic compliment and outright flirting. She’s too good at that. 

There’s a honk behind them and both girls look to see Artigas’s dad waving at them from his car next to the curb. 

Aden slips past Clarke out the door. “Bye, you guys,” he says, smiling. He leans conspiratorially into Clarke, ignoring Lexa’s threatening glare. “Lexa’s been friggin’ out the entire day,” he whispers. “I think she actually wiped off every baseboard in the house and –” 

“Bye, Aden,” Lexa says loudly and pointedly. He grins cheekily at her and offers both of them a salute before hopping down the steps and into Trent’s car. 

Lexa stands to the side to let Clarke actually enter the house and the other girl removes her army-green jacket, slipping it off to reveal the straps of her dress and smooth, bare arms and shoulders. Lexa’s throat moves again as she takes the jacket. 

They stand after the door has closed for a moment, looking at each other. Lexa just takes her in, warmth in her chest and half-smile on her face, reveling in her presence. Clarke flushes after a beat, mouth curved in an embarrassed sort of smile as she looks at the ground, and Lexa drapes her jacket on the back of an armchair and gestures her into the kitchen. 

“Red wine okay?” she asks, opening a cabinet. The sauce is simmering on the stove, throwing off heat, and the pasta is steaming in a colander in the sink. Dessert is still baking in the oven. 

Clarke nods and Lexa takes out the bottle of cabernet her mom had bought a few days ago. She pulls the cork and pours them two generous glasses, gesturing for Clarke to sit down. Lexa herself turns around to take a fortifyingly large gulp of wine, trying to quell her nerves. 

She ladles pasta and sauce onto plates for them, setting the bruschetta on the middle of the table as they sit down. 

Clarke leans forward, inhaling the smells. “Tell me what these delectable-looking dishes are, chef,” she says, smiling. 

“Bruschetta on toasted baguette,” Lexa responds, pointing at the center plate, “Which, if you’re not familiar, is a simple topping of tomatoes, garlic, olive oil and basil. And this guy,” she continues, framing her main plate, “is linguine with a Bolognese sauce. Staple of Italian cooking.” 

Clarke takes a bite of the bread and topping, rolling her eyes and groaning. “ _Shit_ , Lex,” she says appreciatively. “This is delicious.” 

Lexa smiles into her plate, wrenching her mind back from the obscene places it wandered to at Clarke’s exclamations. 

“Thanks for coming,” she says quietly, as Clarke is swirling pasta around her fork. 

Clarke raises her eyes and smiles gently at her. When it goes on longer for a beat, she lowers her gaze again to her food. Lexa can tell Clarke’s trying not to get caught up in the sentiment, that she’s trying to maintain a certain emotional detachment. She understands it, Clarke not wanting to dive all the way in, even if it still stings. 

“Thanks for cooking for me.” 

Lexa quirks an eyebrow. “Don’t thank me until you’ve actually tried it.” 

Clarke arches one right back as she puts the fork into her mouth. She closes her eyes while chewing, face going slack. She hums enthusiastically around her food. “Goddamn you, Lexa Woods,” she mumbles, swallowing. 

“I can’t tell if this is a good thing or if you’re actually cursing my existence.” 

“Both, definitely,” Clarke says, opening her eyes and grinning. “That’s one of the best things I’ve ever had in my mouth.” 

Lexa chokes on the sip of wine she’s taking. She coughs, hand to her chest, while Clarke looks on with an amused smirk. “Uh – good. That – that’s quite a compliment.” 

She takes a bite of her own pasta to cover up the redness of her cheeks, trying to block out images of Clarke kneeling in front of her, head between her thighs. Goddamn you, Clarke Griffin. 

It _is_ good, though. 

The oven beeps and Lexa scrapes her chair back quickly, avoiding Clarke’s still-insufferably pleased face. She grabs the mitts from the counter and opens the oven door, grasping the glass baking dish and placing it on a trivet, hiding it behind the coffee maker. 

She turns around, blocking it from Clarke’s curious neck crane. “Not until after dinner. It has to cool a bit,” Lexa says firmly. 

Clarke raises her hands in capitulation. “You know how impatient I get,” she says with crooked smile. 

Lexa is assaulted with the memory of Clarke telling her to _fuck_ her now, please and thank you, on the table at the art studio, and narrows her eyes suspiciously. Clarke stares back at her, innocent and wide-eyed as she takes a sip of wine. Like she’s not throwing around subtle sexual innuendoes like Frisbees. Like she’s not just trying to make Lexa blush. 

Lexa gives her one more doubtful glance before sitting back down, taking another large gulp of cabernet. She needs it tonight. 

“So,” Clarke says, reaching for another piece of bread and bruschetta. “Wells’ dad told me something interesting.” 

Lexa swallows her pasta and cocks her head curiously, noticing the shift in her tone. “Yeah?” 

“Well, they’re looking into Quint and any known associates. They’ve known about him for awhile and Thelonious was actually really grateful for some detailed intel. He couldn’t get too specific, but he did say they have a few surveillance operations going on. Apparently,” Clarke looks directly at Lexa, smile gone, “two of his guys had the shit kicked out of them a few weeks ago.” Lexa stares at her plate. “And there was something going around about a masked crusader.” 

At Lexa’s continued avoidance of eye contact and silence, Clarke keeps going, an edge creeping into her voice. “Thelonious was saying they described him to their crew as 6’4, 250 lbs – built like an NFL linebacker. But, then, they would overcompensate if the actual attacker was a 17 year-old girl.” 

Lexa plays with the stem of her wine glass, trying to formulate a response. “I didn’t plan it,” she says finally, quietly. “I just … snapped one night. I rode past them on my bike from work and – I had to do something.” 

Clarke exhales in an incredulous huff. “Lexa,” she says tightly, enunciating every letter. “What – what were you thinking? You could’ve been killed –” 

“You know Art keeps having panic attacks?” she interrupts, her own ire creeping up despite her efforts to quash it. “You know he’s had four at school? Every time someone touches him suddenly, or there’s a loud noise – he’s back there, getting pistol-whipped. He’s not the same person he was, Clarke. Because of _them_.” She shakes her head, trying to reign in her emotions. “If you think they didn’t deserve it –” 

“Of _course_ they deserved it, Lexa,” Clarke cuts in, blue eyes suddenly burning and cold. “They deserve whatever they get.” She leans forward a little, gaze intent and narrow on Lexa. “But _you_ don’t. You could’ve easily been hurt or – or worse. I can’t lose someone else I –” she abruptly snaps her mouth shut, looking away. 

Lexa stares at her. She takes in the clench of Clarke’s jaw, the slight dusting of pink on her cheeks, the way she’s resolutely dodging Lexa’s eyes. 

“I’m sorry,” Lexa says quietly, after a moment. Any anger she felt is gone. “I didn’t mean to make you worry.” She looks down at her own hands, sitting in her lap. “I didn’t want you anywhere near this – I’m sorry you were involved at all.” 

“I’m not,” Clarke responds simply, and Lexa raises her head to meet her gaze. It’s softening, but still fierce. “My mom and I – we helped. We _could_ help, and that’s important. And,” she hesitates, “I think it let me understand you better. What you have to deal with, on a daily basis.” 

Lexa grimaces, feeling a rush of defensive irritation. “I don’t want your pity, Clarke.” 

“I said ‘understand,’ not ‘pity,’” she says flatly. She frowns, looking like she’s searching for words. “It helped me … see you more. See why you said what you did, that night.” 

Lexa averts her eyes guiltily, fingers twisting on her legs. 

“I don’t know what that’s like, having that hang over your head. I’ve never had to worry about that, and, maybe … that was the first time I really appreciated it.” She sighs. “It makes more sense, you trying to pull away. Because we _have_ led different lives, and I think it really hit me when I saw Artigas.” 

There’s a pause, and Clarke puts a hand out on the table, drawing Lexa’s attention. Her eyes are soft and worried. “Lex, if I ever, _ever_ gave you the impression that I thought I was … that I was somehow better than you because of it …” 

Lexa’s already shaking her head, raising her own hand to hover over Clarke’s on the table. She flutters her fingers indecisively before dropping her hand down, feeling the warmth of Clarke’s palm. “No, that wasn’t you at all. That was all me – my own shit,” she says, very firmly. 

Clarke looks at her probingly for another moment and then nods, and Lexa takes her hand away. 

There’s a silent, mutual acknowledgement of the moment, and then Clarke picks up her fork again and Lexa takes another sip of wine. 

“So, you can fight,” Clarke says, her tone light and curious, after she’s taken another bite. “I’m assuming you taking down two grown men with your bare hands isn’t a regular occurrence.” 

Lexa twirls some of the linguine onto her fork and half-shrugs. “No, but it’s also not the first time. And it probably won’t be the last.” 

Clarke smiles in a disbelieving sort of way and shakes her head, mopping up some of her Bolognese with the bread. “How did you even start that?” 

“Anya,” Lexa answers simply, taking another drink of her wine. “She started teaching me everything she knew when I was eight. Which, granted, wasn’t much, but we improvised and learned together. And then Lincoln’s dad, who owns the gym on 54th, gave me some actual training sessions. Boxing and MMA techniques, mainly. Mixed martial arts,” Lexa clarifies, at Clarke’s confused look. The other girl’s face clears in recognition. 

“I have to admit I’m deeply, inappropriately curious about something,” Clarke says after a beat, trying to maintain a serious expression but Lexa can see the corners of her mouth turn up. “It’s a pretty loaded question. Could lead to some places.” 

Lexa arches an intrigued eyebrow. “Now you have to ask, with that build-up.” 

Clarke leans forward, eyes bright and eager, pausing a beat before saying in a rush, “Who would win in a fight between you, Lincoln and Anya?” 

Lexa starts laughing, surprising herself. Clarke looks absolutely elated at her reaction, grinning widely, soft and affectionate. There’s that look of wonderment in her eyes, like Lexa’s a present she’s just received. She’s seen it a few times before, but to see it again, after everything, makes Lexa’s chest flood with warmth. 

She shoves the insistent voices of her own insecurity down, yelling that she doesn’t deserve it, that Clarke _can’t_ actually feel that, that she needs to run before she gets broken. Lexa’s done giving those voices a platform. 

Lexa leans back, crossing her arms over her chest and adopting a pensive look. “That’s a fair question, actually.” She takes a contemplative sip of wine, draining her glass, and rises to pour herself another. “Lincoln’s obviously got the advantage in strength, and he probably has the most technical knowledge too.” She leans back against the kitchen counter, swirling the liquid around in her glass. “Anya’s got the upper-hand in speed and resourcefulness. She’s incredibly dangerous if you back her into a corner.” 

Lexa pauses, and sees Clarke watching her avidly. “And then, me. I fall somewhere in between both of them in regard to speed and strength, and I’m not nearly as scrappy as Anya or as proficient as Lincoln. But,” she tips a glass to Clarke, “if I get angry, like _really_ angry, all bets are off.” 

Clarke leans back, too, gazing at her with an appraising smirk. “That was surprisingly honest.” 

Lexa lifts one shoulder. “It’s kind of fun to think about. Purely hypothetically, of course, cause I don’t wanna face either of them in a real fight.” She frowns. “Okay, you know what? Anya. I’d call Anya. She’s so terrifying.” 

Clarke raises her eyebrows in mild shock. “Okay. Damn. Good to know.” She shakes her head at Lexa’s offer of more wine, and a new glint enters her eyes. “Should we set this up as a scientific experiment? Rules are: no clothes, no genital kicks, and no whining.” Her eyes grow distant as she looks into a corner of the ceiling. “There could be oil of some kind involved.” 

Lexa barks out another unexpected laugh, and flushes _again_. Clarke: 3, Lexa: 0. “I’m not sure if I should feel uncomfortable, jealous, or flattered.” 

“Definitely flattered.” 

Lexa looks at her, mischievous smirk, tongue barely poking out between her teeth, blue eyes clear and gleaming, and can’t believe how beautiful she is. Clarke’s just sitting in her kitchen, existing, and Lexa is abruptly overwhelmed. 

She turns around before too much adoration can show on her face, and slides out the glass baking dish from behind the coffee maker. 

“Can I interest you in some dessert?” 

Clarke clasps her hands together expectantly. “Sell it to me.” 

Lexa brings it over to place in front of Clarke, proud at how attractive it looks. You wouldn’t necessarily think it, but tarts can go _badly_ sometimes. “What we have here is a brown butter raspberry tart – homemade crust, fresh raspberries, butter browned to within an inch of its life.” 

“Lexa,” Clarke says quietly, dragging out her name and eyeing the tart ravenously. “You talented baking raccoon, you.” 

Lexa doesn’t ask about the odd animal epithet, instead turning back to the freezer to take the vanilla ice cream out. She takes out two plates and cuts a slice for each of them, placing a scoop on top and putting it in front of Clarke with a flourish. 

Clarke groans in a particularly pornographic way when she takes her first bite. “Oh my _god,_ you’ve ruined me,” she mumbles through a mouthful. “I’m fucking done with all other food.” 

Lexa grins unrestrainedly. She takes her own forkful, and is pretty damn satisfied with the result herself. The cold sweetness of the ice cream contrasts nicely with the tartness of the raspberries and smokiness of the browned butter. 

The next few moments are silent except for their enthusiastic consumption of the tart slices. Until Clarke looks up after a bite and smiles in that gentle, secretive way that Lexa loves. 

“I’m glad I came tonight,” she says quietly. 

Lexa returns it, heat dropping into her stomach that has nothing to do with the pie. “Me, too.” 

She sets her silverware down gently, staring down at her half-eaten slice, marshaling her courage and trying to find that place of fearlessness she reached before. 

“I …” Lexa starts, and swallows hard. Promising start. “I don’t have a lot of people I put my trust in, Clarke.” She senses rather than sees Clarke put her own fork down slowly, registering the shift in the atmosphere. “People who meant something to me at one point, they left. My father, my first girlfriend … but the people around me now – they mean more to me than anything.” 

She inhales and looks up to meet Clarke’s furrowed, searching stare. “The fact that you became one of those people, and how fast it happened – it scared me at first. But I want you to know, I’m not scared now. I want you to be there.” She sees the slender length of Clarke’s throat move. “And I’ll give you whatever time you need. I just need you to know that … I’m here if you want me. I’m not going anywhere.” 

Clarke shifts her eyes slightly and pulls her bottom lip into her mouth, echoing Lexa’s deep inhale. 

“I … I do know that, Lex.” She looks at her again. “But thank you for saying it.” 

Lexa nods and returns to her plate, understanding that she had her moment and said what she needed to, but Clarke isn’t quite ready to return the sentiment, if she chooses to at all. She still needs more time. She doesn’t begrudge her that. 

There’s a moment of continued silence, both of them contemplating the plates in front of them, before Clarke surprises her. 

“What happened with your father and first girlfriend?” she asks quietly, peering at her. 

Lexa sighs, taking another sip of her wine. “My dad – I didn’t even really know him, to be honest. He left us when I was about eight months old. Just snuck away one day and didn’t come back. My mom – my poor, optimistic mom – met Aden’s father a year after that, and thought he was different. Turns out he lasted an extra year and then did the same thing.” She forces her own fingers to unclench around the glass stem. “I think you mentioned something earlier about taking on two grown men with my bare hands? Yeah, I could do that. They’d be drinking out of a straw for the next six months if I met them in a dark alley.” 

Clarke exhales with Lexa, who feels her steady gaze. “And your girlfriend?” 

Lexa raises her eyes and gives her a weak smile. “Costia.” It feels strange to say her name. She doesn’t think she’s said it more than two or three times since she left. The entire conversation feels strange. She doesn’t pour out her abandonment issues to just anyone. No one, really. All of her friends and family already know the stories or they know enough not to ask about it. “I met her when I was 15, and we fell in love. She was mine, and she left.” She sighs deeply, still feeling that faint emptiness from where Costia went. “Her family had to leave,” she clarifies. “It wasn’t her decision. But it still happened.” 

Clarke puts a hand on her forearm. “I’m sorry, Lex,” she whispers. 

Lexa shrugs, trying to come off as unconcerned and fairly certain she fails. “It’s okay. It was a while ago.” She tenses, staring at Clarke’s hand on her arm. “And I shouldn’t be complaining about my errant ex-girlfriend to someone who’s experienced real loss.” 

Clarke shakes her head. “Loss is loss, Lex. Both of our dads are equally absent.” 

“Yeah, but you lost someone you were close to your entire life. I just had a sperm-donating douchebag who went out for smokes and never came back.” 

Clarke lets out a weak chuckle, finishing her slice and ice cream. “You make an eloquent argument.” 

“I frequently do.” 

It’s not an uncomfortable quiet that falls after that. Clarke helps her load the dishwasher after they finish, and stands close as Lexa washes some of the pots and pans, drying them with a dish towel. Her presence and actions make a soothing rhythm, and the little, intimate smiles they exchange give Lexa’s stomach a pleasurable jolt every time. 

It feels very normal and natural, washing and drying dishes with Clarke in her own kitchen. She was afraid Clarke would feel jarringly out of place here, in _her_ place, but she fits in like she’s fit into every other part of Lexa’s life – rapidly and terrifyingly easily. 

Clarke checks her phone after they’ve put away the last pot. “I should get back home,” she says quietly. 

Lexa wipes the suds off her hands and nods, squashing the coil of disappointment that drops into her chest. She’s just enjoying being able to look at Clarke, to smell her and hear her, and know she’s close. She doesn’t really want Clarke to leave (ever, if she’s being candid), but of course it’s getting late and Clarke’s mother is probably waiting to hear from her. 

She follows Clarke out to the living room, taking Clarke’s green jacket off the back of the couch and handing it to her with a small smile. She walks her to the front door and they stand in front of it, slight uncertainty leaking into the air as Clarke slips on her outer layer and avoids her eyes. 

“Thanks again for coming,” Lexa says quietly. 

Clarke nods silently, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear and still not looking at her, and Lexa shrivels inside. She puts a hand out on the doorknob, preparing to open it so that a clearly uneasy Clarke can leave, and the other girl grasps her wrist lightly. 

She meets her eyes, quick flash of eager blue, and suddenly Clarke is kissing her. Suddenly Clarke’s hands are buried in her hair and her body is pressing close and her lips are moving over hers in a desperate sort of hunger. Lexa gasps and responds immediately, tugging Clarke’s hips closer and opening her mouth to meet the wet, welcome heat of Clarke’s. 

And, holy mother of _god_ , she’s missed her so much. 

Lexa whimpers into Clarke’s mouth as their lips slide against each other, and how did she go so long without this? How could she _possibly_ think she would have been okay without this? She tastes like raspberries and wine and longing and _Clarke_ , and Lexa is punch-drunk on her. She’s missed this so much it’s exquisite to have it again, half-painful.  

She bites onto the soft fullness of Clarke’s lower lip, tasting her judder of breath, and chokes out a moan of sheer need. She backs them up into the wall separating the kitchen and living room, hands on the bare smoothness of Clarke’s neck and cheeks. She cups her face and angles her head, relishing the huff of surprised air as Clarke’s back hits the wall. 

Lexa presses into her because she needs _no_ space to exist between them right now. She tilts her hips against Clarke’s, slipping a hot, greedy tongue into her mouth and slotting a thigh between Clarke’s. The other girl groans from the bottom of her throat as Lexa leans into the apex of her legs, dropping a hand to trail up Clarke’s thigh, hitting the hem of her dress. 

“Lex,” Clarke gasps out, ripping her mouth away and putting a restraining palm on Lexa’s wandering hand. “Lex, wait.” 

Lexa stops immediately, pulling back. They’re both breathing heavily, Clarke’s lips red and kiss-swollen, her eyes huge and wanting. Lexa steps back because the feeling of Clarke against her is so distracting she can barely focus on anything else. 

“Shit,” Lexa mutters, coming back to herself. “I’m sorry. That was a lot.” 

“It’s okay. I just need some more time,” Clarke says shakily, pushing down her dress. “Before we do this.” 

Lexa shakes her head, trying to clear her lust-hazy mind and not stare at Clarke’s thighs. “You don’t have to explain, Clarke.” 

“I want to, okay,” Clarke says, breathing slowly decreasing. “I want to do this. But not yet.” 

Lexa nods, running a hand through her own hair and smoothing it down. “Of course. Whatever you need.” She steps back to the door, her hands still trembling a little. 

Clarke follows her, readjusting her clothing. “Crap,” she mutters under her breath. “I have to go now, okay? I can’t stay like this …” she takes a shuddery inhale. 

She rests a hand on Lexa’s face, staring into her, and moves close for one last goodbye kiss. It’s soft, but there’s a current of urgency under it and it’s a few beats longer than it should be. Clarke pulls away and opens the door without another word, stepping out and down the front steps. 

She gets a few feet away before she stops, and Lexa sees her take a deep breath. Clarke turns around and raises a hand that’s visibly quivering. “I’ll see you soon, okay, Lex?” 

“Night, Clarke,” she responds. She watches as Clarke gets into her car and drives off, and then shuts the door and slumps back against it, sliding down it to sit on the floor. Her entire body is still singing and shaking, desperate for more of Clarke’s skin against it. She presses her hands to her face, heels into her eyelids until she sees bright lights, and tries to get control of herself. 

_Fuck me_ , she thinks. 

***

On Monday, in the ten minutes between her second and third-period classes, Lexa shuts her locker door and turns around to find Raven and Octavia blocking her way. Their postures are deliberate and unwelcoming, arms crossed, eyes narrowed, looking at Lexa like she’s a particularly unpleasant bug they’re forced to squash. 

“Uh,” Lexa starts, intelligently. “Hi.” 

They ignore her greeting completely. “So, it seems like you and Clarke are starting up again,” Octavia says tonelessly. These are the first words she’s spoken to Lexa in _months_. 

“I think so,” Lexa says slowly, shifting her bag on her shoulder uncomfortably. 

“You know,” Raven says, jerking her head towards Octavia, “me and O here decided to give you the benefit of the doubt the first time around.” They simultaneously move forward, pinning Lexa. She withdraws until her back hits the lockers, looking between them and panicking slightly. She didn’t feel nearly this threatened when she was beating the shit out of Quint’s guys. “That was clearly a terrible mistake. One we’re not going to repeat.” 

Octavia puts an arm out, pressing a hand against the lockers beside Lexa’s head. “So, we’re gonna say this exactly once. You’ve hurt Clarke enough already. If you do it again – if we get _any_ hint that you’re mistreating her, or taking her for granted, or planning another pussy-ass emotional retreat – we will make your life a living hell.” 

“We might not be able to take you, you know, one-on-one,” Raven picks up seamlessly, eyes pure cold steel, “but that doesn’t mean we can’t hurt you.” 

Lexa clutches her bag and flicks her eyes between them, finding no evidence of insincerity. 

“Do you believe us?” Raven asks. 

“Yes,” Lexa says, and she truly does. 

“Good,” Octavia says shortly. “Also, _we_ ,” she gestures among the three of them, “are not okay. Clarke might be in the process of forgiving you, but that’s not how we work.” She leans in closer. “So stay the fuck out of our way.” 

They pivot and leave Lexa, who grasps her shoulder bag and feels her heart pound against her rib cage. She slumps slightly against the lockers. 

_Fuck me_ , she thinks again.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whelp. So this is it. It's been a wonderful, rewarding experience sharing my story with you guys. Thank you so much to everyone who read, gave kudos, or commented. And especially thank you to those readers who commented multiple times (or on every chapter - you guys know who you are and you’re fabulous). It felt like having an ongoing conversation with people emotionally invested in this fic, and that's not something I take lightly. 
> 
> I'm not on tumblr, but if you ever want to talk fic, Clexa, or even just chat, my email is nosuchanimal7@gmail.com and my metaphorical door is always open. Hope you all enjoy this last chapter!

The rest of the week passes by uneventfully, without any further events of pants-pissing intimidation. Lexa, who’s not only done her own share of threatening but also the occasional follow-through of said threats, remains impressed with the techniques of Octavia and Raven. They _really_ sold it. 

Clarke sits down at their table across from Tris and Art on Tuesday, giving Artigas a soft smile and asking how he’s doing. He hasn’t had a panic attack this week yet, but Lexa’s still trying to surreptitiously watch him. She sees Lincoln doing the same, and feels a rush of gratitude for her friends. 

Clarke catches her eye a few times from the side, smiling at her without trying to talk to her over the entire table. They haven’t talked explicitly about their impromptu make-out on Friday, texting a few times over the weekend without mentioning it. Of course, this doesn’t mean it’s not at the forefront of Lexa’s mind, especially when Clarke is _right_ there. 

She wants to invite her over again, but is stepping back, waiting for Clarke to make the next move. She said she wasn’t ready for _that_ yet, so Lexa wants the ball to be in her court. She wants her to feel totally comfortable with whatever happens next. 

Octavia and Raven are at their usual places at the table, draped over Lincoln and Anya (respectively), and they give her matching flat yet communicative glares when they see her smiling at Clarke. She swallows down her hamburger and shifts her gaze. 

Clarke sits with them a few more times during the week, and Lexa can’t help but feel progressively more hopeful. 

Lexa gets out of class on Friday, rides the bus home with Aden, and immediately takes out her bike and pedals over to Gus’s gym. Lincoln is already there, warming up on the speed bag. He makes it look effortless, but Lexa remembers how long it took her to do it without punching herself in the face or losing her rhythm. Most of the school year when she was 15, if she recalls correctly, and unquantifiable levels of public humiliation. 

They duck under the ropes and get into the ring after Lexa gets changed, but Gus, an enormous, burly man with several tattoos and the disposition of a kitten, clears his throat and points his finger. Lincoln rolls his eyes but grabs two mouth guards and hands one to Lexa. Gus never lets them spar in his presence without them, after Lexa almost bit her tongue in half last year. 

They circle around each other at first, balanced on the balls of their feet, gloved fists up and blocking, just warming up their legs and stretching out their arms. Lincoln takes the first shot, an easily-evaded jab, and Lexa side-steps him and dances away. It’s not long before she’s sweating and grinning, side burning from a barely-checked knee to the ribs. Lincoln is circling like a shark around blood, satisfied little smile on his face. 

The smile dies when he tries to execute an upper-cut and hits air, and Lexa sneaks in and sinks a gloved fist into his stomach, followed by an elbow dug between his shoulder blades. He staggers, dropping to one knee and raising a hand in surrender. Lexa is taking out her mouth guard to gloat when she hears clapping behind them. 

She whirls around to see Octavia and _Clarke_ , standing a few feet from the ring. Octavia’s hip is cocked and she’s clapping in a slow, nonchalant way, but she looks reluctantly impressed. Clarke is flushed and wide-eyed, staring at Lexa with an odd expression. They’re both in workout clothing, tight capris and tank tops. 

Lexa feels her heartbeat ratchet up and quickly takes out her mouth guard, wiping her face off. She shoots Lincoln one accusatory, slightly panicky glare before slipping through the ropes, dropping down and ripping off her gloves with her teeth. 

“Lexa,” Octavia says, nodding at her. 

“Hey,” Lexa says breathlessly. She looks at Clarke and can’t keep her eyes from scanning up and down, enjoying how the material clings to her, how her legs look fucking _miles_ long in those shorts. She raises her eyes to Clarke’s face and feels slightly better when she catches the other girl doing the same to her. 

“What are you guys doing here?” she asks, turning from Clarke’s blush-inducing gaze. 

“I’m training with Lincoln,” Octavia answers shortly. “Clarke wanted to tag along.” And with that abrupt pronouncement, she walks away, stepping up to bend under the ropes and put a hand on Lincoln’s shoulder, checking on him. 

Lexa and Clarke are suddenly, obviously alone. “How long were you standing there?” Lexa asks, not sure if she wants the answer. She rubs the back of her sweaty neck with a wrapped hand. 

“Ten minutes or so,” Clarke says, the odd look on her face shifting to a more familiar half-smile. Her cheeks are still pinker than usual. “You and Linc were otherwise occupied.” 

Lexa grimaces. “Yeah, we can get pretty focused. I’m sorry we left you guys hanging.” 

“No, it was fine,” Clarke says, shaking her head, a hint of whatever her expression was before creeping in. Is it admiration? “It was an eye-opening experience, seeing you in literal action.” She cocks her head. “You weren’t lying about your badass-itude.” 

Lexa looks at the ground, embarrassed and reddening. How distinctly un-badass of her. “Thanks,” she says quietly. “It didn’t happen overnight, I can confidently inform you.” 

“So … you want to give me some pointers?” 

Lexa gapes. “You want to …” she gestures broadly behind her, at the bags and ring. 

“That would be why I’m here,” Clarke says, smirking indulgently at her. 

“Oh.” She looks at Clarke helplessly. “Okay.” 

Clarke’s eyebrows wrinkle together for a moment. “Is that okay? Lex, if it makes you uncomfortable, sharing this part of your life with me – I’d understand.” She jerks a thumb behind her, earnest concern written across her face. “It’s no problem. I can go.” 

Lexa feels warm at the thought of Clarke being so considerate, of looking out for her. “No,” she says quickly. “I don’t want you to go. I want to share parts of my life with you.” She flushes at the enormity of that statement. “I – I mean, this part of my life. This part. This is fine.” 

Clarke ducks her head and smiles at the ground, clearly pleased. She looks up at Lexa through her eyelashes, and Lexa’s heart contracts pathetically. “Well, okay then. Lead the way, Ronda Rousey.” 

Lexa feels the corners of her lips turning up without permission. “You know who Ronda Rousey is?” 

“Honestly? No, not really,” Clarke says, following Lexa as she walks towards the right corner of the gym, a stretching area with several exercise mats on the ground. “I just know what her arms look like.” 

“I don’t know if I would’ve pegged you for an arm girl.” 

“Well, as it turns out,” Clarke says from behind Lexa, “I can appreciate many parts of a woman’s body.” 

Lexa finds it fortunate that Clarke can’t see what her face looks like right now, even if a small choking noise does escape her. 

“So,” she announces, after clearing her throat and turning around, “I thought we’d just start with some stretching and warm-ups. You always want to give your body an adjustment period before throwing a bunch of shit at it.” 

Clarke looks up as Octavia and Lincoln join them a few mats away, starting their own stretching routine. When she looks away, eyes roaming around the rest of the gym, Octavia aims a finger at Lexa and then points two towards her own eyes, clearly communicating her sentry duty. Lexa snaps her head back. 

She leads Clarke through a full-body stretching regimen and then some light cardio, using the excuse that she’s scrutinizing Clarke’s form to actually ogle her shamelessly. Dear _god_ , her chest looks fantastic in a sports bra. 

After some warm-up squats and bicycle kicks on her back, Lexa gives her a length of jump-rope. She instructs her to go hard for 30 seconds and then rest for 15. After a few intervals of this, Clarke is panting and slightly damp. “That it? I can go home now, right?” 

“It’s been ten minutes.” 

“Pssshh,” Clarke scoffs. “Don’t ever tell me the odds. I can go all day. I don’t even need to rest.” She’s mumbling towards the end. 

Lexa grins and hands her a bottle of water, which she chugs gratefully. Lexa takes her over to the upright punching bags next and shows her basic form. She corrects her stance (too narrow), her hips (too stationary), and her shoulders (dropping). She shows her how to punch without breaking any bones, and tells her to hit the bag _very_ lightly. Clarke’s not wearing gloves or any other wrapping, and Lexa doesn’t want her knuckles to get rubbed raw. 

“We’re just focusing on form right now,” she tells her, after Clarke groans that she wants to hit the crap out of something and isn’t that why she’s here. 

Lexa tries not to touch her unless it’s absolutely necessary, but her proximity is getting to her. She has to press light fingers against her hips and back to move her, and the combination of Clarke’s ass in those shorts, the warm slick of her skin, and how absolutely _delicious_ she smells is taking its toll. Lexa feels that familiar low tug in her abdomen and her hands twitch every time she moves close enough to touch. 

It’s when she’s demonstrating to Clarke how to step into a right jab, hitting the bag at about half-strength, when she sees it. Clarke is watching her intently, eyes big and dark, teeth sunk into her lower lip and _holy shit_ she’s turned on right now, too. 

Lexa almost starts laughing because how did she not see it before? _That_ was the odd undercurrent in Clarke’s expression in the beginning, witnessing her and Lincoln sparring. She feels like an idiot for not recognizing it sooner, because it’s not like she’s never seen it before. She just didn’t expect it _here_ , where she’s perspiring heavily and belligerent. 

Although, watching out of the corner of her eye as she does another quick punch (and seeing how Clarke’s eyes linger on Lexa’s forearms and the sheer bit of fabric of the shirt against her sports bra), the other girl’s not complaining. 

She wants to respect Clarke’s wishes of distance, so she stops herself from taking advantage of the situation and flirting harder than usual. But when _Clarke_ starts trailing fingertips down her arm, looking up at her with wide, innocent eyes and that crooked, mischievous smirk gracing her face – Lexa gives into the proverbial _fuck it_. 

The next time she needs to adjust Clarke’s stance, she steps closer than she strictly needs to, almost pressing her hips into Clarke’s ass, mouth hovering over her shoulder. Her reward is a hiccup of Clarke’s breath as she speaks softly, warm air skating over the bare skin of her back. She puts her hands on Clarke’s hips and increases the pressure gently, turning her. 

“Good,” Lexa murmurs, and presses her full palms into Clarke’s sides before removing her hands. 

She walks around to the front, eyeing her form as Clarke stands, fists held lightly in front of her body, and sees the other girl is visibly struggling. 

Lexa grins inwardly, maliciously, and puts her hand out to raise Clarke’s chin, fingertips rubbing lightly against her jaw. 

“Head up,” she says quietly, and feels Clarke shiver under her touch. “Okay, show me again.” 

Clarke shoots her right arm out, connecting with the bag in a satisfying smack. Lexa’s impressed, actually. For someone who’s a self-proclaimed spectator and non-sports-participator, Clarke is picking up the physical dynamics of this easily. It’s the look in her eyes that hints at untapped physical prowess, like she would have no compunctions about beating the shit out of someone. Lexa thinks, with a half-year of training, Clarke would be a legitimate threat in the ring. 

She steps forward and grasps Clarke’s forearm, raising it straight out to copy the motion of her punch. She puts a hand under her elbow, fingers splayed out to press into the soft skin under her arm, and rotates it a few degrees. 

“You want that angle, okay?” she says, putting a hand over her curled fist and placing it against the bag. “So your knuckles hit it straight on.” 

Lexa trails a palm down her arm and wrist before letting it drop. When she meets Clarke’s gaze, she unconsciously freezes. Unabashed hunger stares back at her, reflected in her parted lips and the dark, tempestuous blue of her eyes. Lexa’s throat bobs. She doesn’t even know what to do in the face of that. 

Clarke clearly has no such reservations. She grabs Lexa’s arm and unceremoniously drags them across the gym floor into the currently-empty locker room, pushing Lexa into one of the bathroom stalls and slamming the door behind them. Lexa immediately regrets her teasing, as Clarke looks her up and down with the kind of calculating, avid greed that belongs on the face of a bank robber staring at an enormous pile of cash. 

Except, oh _god_ , she’s missed that stare. Because she knows exactly where it leads. 

She strands as straight as she can under her heavy gaze, chin raised and head unbowed. 

“You were doing that on purpose,” Clarke says finally, arching an eyebrow. She’s reached that place that Lexa _loves_ , desire transformed into unyielding, controlling resolve. 

Lexa swallows and nods. 

“What were you hoping for?” she asks softly. “That I’d drag you in here and push you down on your knees?” Lexa tries not to let the tremors in her legs show. “That I’d bend you over that bench?” 

She can’t even help it – she fucking _whimpers_. Clarke’s eyes flash at it. 

“Oh?” she says lightly. “You wouldn’t even care who sees? That anyone could walk in and see me, buried three fingers deep in you?” 

Lexa instinctively clenches her thighs together, trying to relieve the hot pulse that’s taken up residence between them. 

“Is that what you want?” Clarke continues quietly, stepping forward. Her eyes flick down to Lexa’s mouth, scant inches away. “Tell me.” 

“Yes,” Lexa whispers. Clarke’s eyes bore into hers and she knows she wants to hear the whole thing. “I want you to fuck me over that bench. I don’t give a shit who sees.” It’s actually, _literally_ scary how much she means it. 

Clarke leans in, brushing her lips barely over Lexa’s, breath ghosting over her. She chases her when she pulls back, but Clarke puts a restraining hand on her chest, splayed over her collarbones, just below her neck. 

“I want that, too,” Clarke says, nails scraping against her skin. “But not tonight,” she whispers, leaning back and smiling in a self-satisfied way that only makes her more attractive. 

Lexa groans softly, eyes rolling to the ceiling. She is going to _die_ from this goddamn girl. 

“How about tomorrow night?” 

Lexa has to replay the words in her head before she realizes Clarke is asking something.

“Wait, really?” she asks, so hopefully that she’s certain she sounds like a kid asking for an ice cream cone. Well, that’s not too inaccurate. 

Clarke nods. “Yeah.” 

“Wait, no,” Lexa says, rising slightly from the sex-saturated haze of her mind, standing straighter and looking at her. “You said you needed time. I don’t want to pressure you, Clarke.” 

Clarke crosses her arms, lifting an eyebrow. “Exactly which part of the last five minutes was _you_ pressuring _me_?” 

Lexa opens and closes her mouth. “Okay,” she mumbles. “If you’re sure.” 

Clarke kisses her, once, hard. Her hand slips under Lexa’s shirt and runs fingertips down her spine. Lexa reels. “I’m sure.” 

Octavia is watching them suspiciously when they come back out to the floor. Lexa is a little shaky, and knows if she tried to spar with Lincoln right now, attention still in the locker room with that fucking bench, it would be a hot, ugly mess. She contents herself with leaning next to Clarke against the ropes, and watching Lincoln and Octavia for the rest of the evening. 

Octavia, she’s not entirely surprised to find, is a natural at this. Her footwork is an obvious strength, conditioned from years of agility on the soccer pitch, and she’s constantly in motion, shifting her balance on the balls of her feet, stepping and side-stepping and readjusting until Lexa honestly has no idea how to read her. She’s a little more hesitant with her upper body, again probably due to soccer. She pulls back too much when she’s throwing a hit, not stepping into it with the rest of her weight. 

Lincoln is a good instructor, Lexa knows both from experience and what she can see right now. He’s patient and systematic and positive, explaining everything in comprehensible terms. When, wearing punching mitts, he tells Octavia not to hold back on the next hit, she executes such a beautiful jab that Lexa quietly whistles and Lincoln beams proudly. 

She and Clarke sneak glances at each other while watching them, just small, quick eye-fucks that make Lexa ache. When it gets late, and Octavia is doing a victory lap around the gym per Lincoln’s encouragement, Clarke grabs Lexa’s hand and squeezes it. 

“I’ll pick you up at 6?” she asks, thumb stroking the top of Lexa’s palm. 

Lexa nods, because her voice _will_ crack if she speaks and she’d prefer not to come across as an overeager teenage boy. 

“My turn to cook, Woods,” Clarke says, smiling. “Be prepared for a thoroughly subpar meal.” 

She leaves with Octavia a few minutes later, slinging an arm around the other girl’s shoulder and singing her praises, and Lincoln and Lexa watch them. 

“Our girls,” he says, soft look in his eyes, and then grins. “They’re gonna be able to take down an adult hippo with their bare hands soon enough.” He claps Lexa on the shoulder and goes to the men’s locker room to change. 

Lexa rides her bike home, eyes peeled for any moving shadows, and comes into the living room to the smells of smoke and burning rubber. 

“Don’t panic!” Aden says loudly, when he sees her. His hair is sticking in every direction imaginable and his face is flushed and sweating. “I _may_ have tried to cook dinner and accidentally set the spatula on tiny, tiny fire.” He points to a mangled, gently smoldering utensil in the sink. “Totes not a big deal.” 

Lexa pats him gently on the back and pulls out a frozen pizza, accepting that tonight’s dinner won’t be the carefully-balanced meal she usually strives for. 

“You tried, Ade,” she says, comforting him while they eat. “That means something. Something small. Not a huge amount.” 

He grins at her, unoffended. “Maybe we’ll start together with something easier, okay, buddy?” she says, and he nods eagerly. He’s such a sweetheart. Even when he’s a pain in the ass. 

Lexa does a few hours of homework before she goes to bed. She works on her English essay on _Lord of the Flies_ (which she appreciates because it validates her natural cynicism about the human race), jots down some answers for her European History class on the War of the Roses, and finishes a worksheet on balancing equations for her Chem class. 

She buries a face into her pillow and grins about tomorrow, because she is so impatient to see Clarke naked again she might actually cry when it happens. 

*** 

Clarke, as it turns out, terrifically undersold her cooking abilities. Lexa can almost always predict a person’s cooking proficiency by how they move around the kitchen, and when she sits down at one of the chairs in Clarke’s house on Saturday evening, she watches her. Clarke handles the chopping knife and skillet with comfortable aplomb, multi-tasking with an unconscious grace, and Lexa leans back with her beer in satisfaction. 

“Where did you learn that?” she asks after several minutes of seeing how Clarke prepares the fish. 

“My dad,” she answers, flicking a strand of hair out of her face while she seasons the pieces. She smiles down at it. “He _loved_ to cook, and started teaching me when I was thirteen. Said just because teenagers were useless at everything else didn’t mean I couldn’t be good at this.” 

Lexa laughs, sipping her beer. “What did he like to cook?” 

Clarke moves onto roasting asparagus, throwing a pan into the oven. “He was a seafood guy, for sure. Barbeque too. But he was really good enough to take any recipe and own it.” 

“He taught you well,” Lexa says, inclining her bottle. 

Clarke squints suspiciously at her. “You haven’t even eaten anything, Lex. You trying to butter me up already?” 

She shakes her head. “I can tell, promise. You’re a good cook and this is gonna be amazing.” 

Clarke smiles, turning back to chopping mango and red onion. “Hope you’re not disappointed.” 

“Impossible.” At Clarke’s soft look directed at her, Lexa says, suppressing a grin, “My standards are so low as it is.” 

She dodges the piece of mango Clarke chucks at her and laughs. 

When they sit down to eat, about 45 minutes later, Lexa is into her second beer and Clarke is cracking open her third, and she is full of warm conversation and comfort. She’s slack and relaxed in her chair, arm slung around the back and legs crossed. 

“Sell it to me,” she says, gesturing to her food and echoing Clarke’s phrase from last time. “Well-plated, by the way.” 

Clarke shakes her neck and stretches her fingers, like she’s preparing for a test. “Well, here, my intrepid culinary explorer, we have coconut-encrusted tilapia with a mango salsa topping, accompanied by asparagus roasted simply with olive oil and garlic.” 

“Dayum.” 

“Eat it first, before you compliment the chef.” 

Lexa takes a bite, the fish flaky and perfectly-cooked, the coconut and mango adding both texture and sweetness to the dish, and groans in gratification. “Subpar my ass.” 

“It most certainly is not,” Clarke says, affronted. “Your ass is well above par.” Lexa laughs around her food and Clarke grins, pleased. She takes a bite herself and closes her eyes. “Oh, yeah.” 

“I told you,” Lexa says, angling her head. “I have a sixth sense for these things.” She smiles softly at her. “Your dad did good.” 

Clarke tilts her beer bottle towards Lexa and she brings her own up, clinking it in a toast. “To Jake Griffin, who believed in useless teenagers,” Clarke says, and, with the steadiness of her voice, it doesn’t sound like it’s hard for her. 

“To Jake,” Lexa repeats, watching her closely as she drinks. Clarke’s eyes are bright but dry, her smile genuine, and her hand is firm when she puts her bottle down. 

“This would be a good time to tell you my news,” Clarke says, after a few moments of silent enjoyment of the meal. 

Lexa looks up, curious. 

“Thelonious talked to me,” she continues, meeting Lexa’s eyes with a tangible gravity. “He couldn’t say much, but they’re close, _really_ close to having enough evidence on Quint. He said an arrest could happen within the next two weeks.” 

Lexa sets her fork down slowly, observing the churn of emotions that erupt in her stomach. Relief so powerful it’s almost dizzying, fierce vindication, hope, anger that never really left, and gratitude. Gratitude for the safety of her friends and family. Gratitude for Clarke. 

She inhales deeply. “That … that’s one of the best things you could’ve said to me.” 

Clarke puts a hand over hers, clasping it gently. “I know.” 

Lexa looks directly at her, hoping her appreciation shows. “Thank you, Clarke.” 

She looks away, embarrassed. “I didn’t do anything, Lex. I was just the messenger.” 

“No,” Lexa says vehemently, shaking her head, turning a hand over to grasp Clarke’s. “You helped Art. You stopped me from making a horrendous, selfish mistake. And Thelonious was entirely your idea. This was _all_ you, Clarke.” 

Clarke flushes, staring down at her plate. “I’m just glad I could help at all.” She sighs. “I felt so helpless with Artigas. I understood why you wanted to … do what you were talking about. That kind of powerlessness – it’s terrible.” 

She raises her head and locks eyes with Lexa, who nods. “Yeah, it is. Kind of helps to explain my control issues, huh?” 

Clarke answers her crooked smile with her own, eyes shifting to look at their intertwined hands. Lexa thinks she senses Clarke’s unease and tries to slide her hand out. But Clarke holds her tighter, not letting her go, and Lexa feels her stomach jolt as she meets the tender blue of her eyes. 

They finish the meal without letting go. 

Lexa drains her bottle when her plate is empty, leaning back and exhaling. “And I say again, dayum.” 

Clarke finally slides her hand from Lexa’s, grabbing both of their plates to take to the sink. “And I accept your praise now.” 

“Can I help with the dishes?” Lexa asks, putting her empty bottle on the counter and peering at the mound of pots and pans in the sink. 

Clarke turns around, back and elbows on the counter. “No.” 

Lexa frowns at her. “No way you’re doing this yourself.” 

“Not tonight.” 

Lexa turns to her slowly. She takes in the sprawl of Clarke’s limbs as she leans, the way her eyes are darkening and trailing up and down her body, the way her tongue darts out to moisten her lips. 

“Oh.” 

Clarke’s grin is huge and wicked. She grabs Lexa’s hand and walks out of the kitchen towards the stairs. Lexa is just following, helplessly caught up in her wake as they start up the staircase, stomach squirming in anticipation. 

She stops dead when Clarke opens the door to her bedroom, seeing the half-finished canvas next to the window. Clarke stops too, eyes widening and flicking between Lexa and the painting like she had completely forgotten about it. 

It’s _her_. 

It’s an almost-direct look at her face, the first one Lexa’s seen. She’s staring just to the right of the viewer, swath of hair pulled back in the same intricate braids she’s worn in previous paintings. There’s something about the tight draw of her face that suggests a huge, suppressed emotion, struggling to disguise itself. But there are a few subtle signs exposing her distress. Her nostrils are flared, her lips pressed together and down, the lines around her mouth carved deep. 

Her eyes are looking at something just off the canvas, stuck between imploring and aloof. She’s wearing that same circle on her forehead Lexa had seen a glint of before, concentric circles and spikes like a gear. She also has what Lexa can only characterize as war paint, deep, dark streaks dripping from her eyes down her cheeks. Except that’s not the only foreign substance on her face. Red is everywhere – splatters, thick lines, and smudges of blood. On her cheeks, forehead, neck, running down her jawline. 

She’s wearing the same strange fusion of materials and textiles Lexa got a glimpse of in Clarke’s last painting. Leather and fur, metallic pieces and straps. There’s an addition to her outfit, too – a metal shoulder guard on her right side, red fabric streaming from it. The canvas ends at her torso, and most of the background is blank, so she dominates the mainly white work, arresting and visceral. She’s both vulnerable and regal, both exposed and untouchable. She’s a fascinating series of contradictions. 

Lexa walks closer to the painting, Clarke watching her. She looks _just_ like her. If she had the responsibility of thousands of lives and existed in a post-apocalyptic wasteland, that is. 

“Who is she looking at?” Lexa whispers. She feels like raising her voice would be disrespectful. 

Clarke moves to her side. “Someone she loves, I think. Someone she’s betraying.” 

Lexa frowns, staring at the ambiguous gleam in her green eyes. The emotion in her face makes sense in that light. “Why would she do that?” 

Clarke sighs. “Because she’s a leader. Because the girl she loves isn’t her first responsibility.” She sounds tired all of a sudden. 

“Jesus, Clarke,” Lexa breathes out. She feels like she’s looking into some kind of warped mirror, getting a glimpse of another _her_. It’s an incredibly strange sensation. 

She glances over at Clarke and finds her watching her intently. “She makes you sad,” Lexa states, brow furrowing. 

“She _is_ sad,” Clarke says quietly, eyes running over Lexa’s face, searching for something. “Sometimes, painting her is exhausting. Just thinking about this life I imagined for her – it’s horribly lonely. And, then she finds this person, finds something she thought she’d never have in a million years, and she has to turn her back on it because her position demands it.” 

Lexa puts her hand out, pressing it against Clarke’s cheek and turning them both so the girl in the painting is just in her periphery. 

“She regrets it,” she murmurs. 

Clarke looks at her quizzically. “What?” 

“She regrets betraying the girl she loves. No matter how much she thinks she has to do it, no matter what the potential cost, it’s not worth it.” 

Clarke’s eyes widen in comprehension. “You think so?” she asks, cocking her head. 

Lexa nods, thumb tracing a line under Clarke’s cheekbone. “It’s never worth it.” She steps a little closer. “Maybe, though … maybe the girl she loves can forgive her. Eventually.” 

The edge of Clarke’s mouth lifts, just slightly. “Maybe.” 

Lexa leans in slowly, giving Clarke plenty of time to pull away if she wants, but she meets her in the middle, pressing their lips together. Lexa kisses her gently, almost entreatingly, because she’s asking for something crucial and Clarke has every right to deny her. 

But Clarke pulls them closer together, putting her hand on the back of Lexa’s neck, and she breathes out in relief. Clarke swallows her exhale, pushing into her and tilting her head to deepen the kiss. When she feels Clarke’s tongue tracing her bottom lip, she shivers and opens her mouth, hands encircling and pressing against Clarke’s lower back. 

Clarke’s hands go to Lexa’s hair, scraping lines along her scalp, nails jerking against the nape of her neck as Lexa sucks on her tongue. The kiss turns heavier, more desperate with that. They press into each other, like the centimeters they’re apart are just too much. Clarke sweeps her tongue into Lexa’s mouth in the kind of dominant way that makes her knees weak, and moves one hand down to the swell of her ass, pushing her forward to hit Clarke’s pelvis. 

Clarke gasps and detaches her mouth from Lexa’s, pulling back. 

“Take off my clothes,” she whispers against Lexa’s lips. “And then I’m taking off yours.” 

Lexa starts complying with a rapidity that might be funny if it weren’t so _fucking_ urgent. She pulls off Clarke’s soft long-sleeve shirt, hands sliding up her ribs as she lifts her arms. Clarke shakes out her hair as Lexa drops the shirt and looks at her, hands moving to graze the fabric of her pink bra. Lexa moves in and kisses her slowly, thoroughly, as she unclasps it and pulls it off, feeling bare skin move tortuously against her own shirt. 

She moves to the buttons of Clarke’s pants next, fingers slipping inside the worn denim and feeling the other girl shake. Lexa sinks to her knees, kissing Clarke’s jumping stomach muscles, running her mouth and tongue along her belly as she unbuttons her jeans. She slowly peels the pants down her legs, mouth following and moving down, hovering over her underwear and pressing kisses to her hip bones and upper thighs. 

Lexa drops her pants to the side and looks up from her knees, Clarke gazing down at her with wide, dark eyes and raw _want_. Clarke’s fingers rub against her scalp as she drops a kiss onto the fabric of Clarke’s underwear, mouthing it and feeling her inhale jerkily. 

She presses her forehead against Clarke’s pelvis for a beat, needing a moment to smell her, inhale her, drop open-mouthed kisses on her skin, and Lexa swells with so much love and longing it’s almost overwhelming. 

“Lexa,” Clarke says, imploringly, and she keeps going. 

She grips the waistband of her panties next, fingertips rubbing against the hot, smooth skin right next to the small patch of hair between her thighs. She pulls them down, thumbs dragging an accompanying line down her legs. She leans in to kiss Clarke’s pelvis, just below her hips, and aches to go lower, to taste her. But Clarke puts two fingers under her chin and applies pressure, raising her head and gently telling her to move. 

Lexa stands up and meets the other girl’s dark gaze, before her eyes move lower and she just _looks_. Because Clarke is naked and beautiful and proud and Lexa is in total awe. She wants nothing more than to press her into the bed and trace every valley and swell with her fingers and mouth, to revel in her, to express her adulation. 

But she remembers Clarke’s order and stands, unmoving, as Clarke’s hands, quivering, go to the buttons of Lexa’s shirt. She feels warm breath skating over her cheeks as each button is released, as Clarke’s hands move lower, eventually grasping her collar and sliding the shirt down her shoulders. 

Lexa’s breath stutters as Clarke lowers her mouth to just above her bra, hot tongue dipping into the hollows of her upper chest, teeth scraping against her collarbones. Clarke drops her shirt and moves to unhook her bra, mouth moving higher, nipping and tonguing at her neck. As the air hits her bare chest, Clarke sucks on her earlobe and Lexa grips her hips hard, almost bruising, because her knees are suddenly weak. 

Clarke pulls back to kiss Lexa and it’s immediately fierce and hungry, heavy breathing and sliding tongues. Lexa’s hands run over Clarke’s body, pressing into the knobs of her spine, curling around the side of her stomach, brushing against her breasts. She’s twitching and impatient for all of Clarke’s skin against hers, all at once dissatisfied with the pace. 

Clarke seems to understand this because her hands go to unzip Lexa’s pants in the next second, following them as she pulls them down her legs. She stays on her knees to drag her underwear off next, giving Lexa one dizzying look from that vantage point, deep blue flashing from underneath thick eyelashes. 

Then she stands up and leads them, both naked, to her bed. She pushes Lexa down gently onto the comforter, following on her hands and legs as she slides up to the headboard. She pushes Lexa’s knees apart and slowly settles between them, hips juddering against Lexa’s as skin meets skin. 

“Lexa,” she says again, half a moan. She props herself up on her arms, arching into Lexa’s center, and meets her eyes. “I want to do this together.” Lexa nods quickly, hands gripping Clarke’s hips and pulling her in. 

“Spread your legs,” Clarke whispers. 

Lexa fails to suppress a groan and opens her thighs. Clarke follows closer, getting on her knees behind Lexa’s legs and positioning herself over her. She looks at Lexa one more time, seeking permission before she keeps going, and Lexa jerks her head. 

“ _Yes_ ,” she says breathlessly. “Fuck, Clarke.” 

Clarke bites her bottom lip, looking down at them, and lowers herself between Lexa’s legs. At the first touch of Clarke against her, wet heat sliding against her own, Lexa flutters her hands against the other girl’s upper thighs and lets out a choked groan. Clarke shudders and stills her hips, closing her eyes. 

“ _God,_ ” she gasps. “Lex.” 

They’re both so wet already, worked up quickly from absence and impatience, that it’s hard to find a rhythm. Clarke rolls her hips and slips against her, and Lexa sees her face twist with concentration and pleasure as she experiments with the angle and pace. Until she finds the right tilt of her hips and Lexa whimpers, straining and arching her back, trying to get as close as physically possible. 

Clarke presses into her, shifting her hips and sliding against her clit, until Lexa is gripping the arms bracketed around her with her nails, shivering uncontrollably. 

She’s really only capable of tiny whines and throaty, unintelligible groans right now, because this feels fucking _amazing_. The wet slide of Clarke against her, the sheer heat between them, the small noises Clarke is making whenever she hits a sensitive spot, the way they can both feel this so acutely – it’s almost too much. She’s not going to last long with this, and she hopes Clarke feels the same. 

Clarke starts a more purposeful pace, thrusting against her with hard, sure strokes, pressing against her until they’re slick with sweat and panting. 

The angle is steep enough that she can’t reach Clarke to kiss her, but she suddenly needs more contact. Lexa moves her hands to cup her breasts, rolling her nipples, and feels Clarke’s tempo stutter before she speeds up with a deep groan. Her mouth drops open at the new rhythm, helpless under her and more aroused because of it. Her gut clenches at the thought of Clarke using her, completely selfishly and unrestrainedly, and she suddenly wants that more than she’s ever wanted anything. 

She _needs_ this. To be Clarke’s. To be whatever she needs to get off. 

It’s an overwhelming sensation, and while she’s sure part of it is coming from a longing for redemption, to belong wholeheartedly to the girl she hurt, she’s also sure it’s one of the most arousing ideas she’s ever had. 

“Clarke,” she says hoarsely, not knowing how to say it. “I’m yours. Fuck – do whatever you want to me. Please.” 

Clarke stops at that, eyes widening as they meet Lexa’s. There’s a beat of near-stillness, as Clarke explores Lexa’s face for hesitation. She seems to find what she needs, though, because the black of her pupils expands even further and she actually fucking _growls._ Lexa shudders, raw want coursing through her at the noise, but then Clarke begins moving her hips again and she can’t think about anything else and she’s on _fire_. 

Clarke immediately starts a harsh, almost punishing rhythm, fucking her into the mattress with abandon. Lexa’s hands scrabble against her bare back, scraping into her. She’ll feel this tomorrow, she knows. There’s a sweet tinge of pain underneath the sheer gratification, hips knocking together, thighs scraping, back rubbing against the comforter, but it only adds to Lexa’s pleasure. Clarke stares at her as she thrusts, eyes holding both a deep hunger and a deep awe, approaching disbelief. 

She moves one of the hands she’s using to prop herself up, and slowly, almost gently wraps it around Lexa’s neck. She doesn’t grip too hard, but the pressure is enough for Lexa to feel and breathe shallower. Clarke groans with her and suddenly Lexa is shaking at the edge of a precipice, every stroke bringing her closer to a vast drop. 

She feels a sharp, surprising pang of disappointment, because she didn’t want to come first. But it doesn’t seem like she has a choice, not with the way Clarke is moving. 

“You’re mine,” Clarke says, low with that same vein of disbelief, and Lexa’s heart thumps. “You’re _mine,_ Lexa.” 

“Yours – _fuck,_ ” she pants out. 

Clarke slams into her once, twice more, running a thumb along the tendons in her neck, and Lexa’s lost. She arches up into her, practically rising from the bed and crying out as she comes. Her entire body is quaking and she loses herself to wave after wave, crashing through her. She barely recognizes Clarke slowing down, watching her as she clutches at sheets and her bare skin. 

When she comes down, eyes fluttering open, chest still heaving, she’s treated to the sight of the sweat-slicked girl on top of her. Clarke is gazing at her with such reverence and desire that Lexa almost can’t comprehend that it’s directed at her. Clarke removes her hand from Lexa’s neck with one last caress of her fingers and cups her face, thumb grazing her cheekbone. 

“I love you,” Clarke says quietly. 

Lexa’s heart stops. 

She doesn’t believe it, not really, because Clarke is beautiful and wonderful and sweet and Lexa doesn’t deserve it. 

But then she searches her face for anything at odds with her statement, reluctance or pity or insincerity, and just finds – exactly what she said. She stares at her, eyes widening and chest erupting with a delicious, enveloping warmth. 

“I love you, too,” Lexa whispers, and smiles. 

She feels lighter, happier, _freer_ than she has in so long. There’s a profound combination of feelings coursing through her – relief and gratitude and hope and astonishment, all wrapped up in the huge love she feels for this girl. But fear, that ever-ubiquitous manipulator, isn’t part of it. 

Clarke smiles back at her, still cupping her cheek, and leans in to kiss her. It’s gentle and slow, completely at odds with the way she was just fucking her. 

“And I’m yours, too,” Clarke breathes against her lips. 

Lexa tilts her head to kiss her again, indolent and exploratory, full of what they’ve just said. When Clarke pulls back after several moments, the pressure and angle makes both of them gasp, remembering exactly how they’re still positioned. 

“Please come,” Lexa murmurs. “I want you to come.” 

Clarke gives her a crooked, tender smile and starts moving her hips again. She goes at a deliberate, languid pace this time, gentle and hitting all the spots that make them both shudder. They’re breathing hard again soon, skin sliding against skin in delicious friction. 

When Clarke does come, hips speeding up before she inhales sharply through her teeth, body taut and shivering, Lexa follows again almost immediately. The sight of Clarke climaxing, the echo of her confession in her ear, the tenderness in her motions, the way they’re each other’s no matter how they fuck or make love – Lexa can’t even pretend to hold on. Her second orgasm is slower and deeper, pulling her under yawning tides. They clutch each other and ride through it, and Clarke drapes herself over Lexa after, skin damp and cooling. 

Lexa wraps one leg around Clarke’s hips, arms snaking around her back and head, and holds her as the other girl nuzzles into her neck. She closes her eyes and breathes her in, utterly immersed and helpless. 

Her heart is a flashing neon sign, the edge of an infinitely-expanding universe, the white-hot center of a flame. She is an amalgam of every romantic cliché ever expressed by pop musicians and poets. She is warm and safe and _loved_. She wraps herself around the girl on top of her and feels happier, more tranquil, more _home,_ than she’s ever felt in her life. 

“Commander,” she mutters after several minutes, and feels Clarke huff a surprised laugh into her neck. 

“Commander,” Clarke responds in turn. “I’ve yet to meet _your_ Commander Lexa. I’m a little impatient.” 

Lexa kisses the top of Clarke’s head, breathing in the scent of her hair. “That could be arranged.” She starts to draw random patterns into the soft skin of Clarke’s lower back. “Are … are you okay with this?” she asks softly. 

Clarke lifts her head to stare at her, heavy-lidded blue eyes shining. “No, I feel distinctly offended at the orgasm and subsequent cuddling with a beautiful girl.” 

Lexa’s mouth turns up. “I mean – are you okay with … us?” 

Clarke drops her head back down, licking a wet, firm trail onto Lexa’s shoulder. “Yes.” Lexa shivers as Clarke bites down gently. “I think that’s a fair assessment.” 

“Clarke,” Lexa starts, hesitantly, and Clarke stops her ministrations at the tone of Lexa’s voice. “I don’t want you to stay here just for me. If you get an art scholarship to some school in New York or – or wherever, I don’t want to hold you back.” 

There’s a moment of silence. Just as Lexa is about to go into full adjustment mode, worried that she sounded too dismissive or affectless, Clarke speaks. 

“Most of the schools I’ve applied to are in LA,” she says. “I was thinking about some of the more prestigious art schools – RISD or Columbia – and I realized I wanted to stay closer to home.” She tangles her fingers in Lexa’s, stroking the inside of her palm. “I love it here, Lexa. I don’t want to live halfway across the country for four years.” 

“Oh,” Lexa breathes out, selfish relief and a sense of weightlessness filling her. “Okay.” 

“That’s okay?” 

“So okay.” 

“Good,” Clarke whispers, smiling into her neck. “Because then, purely coincidentally, I would only be an hour away and could see my gorgeous, MMA-warrior girlfriend regularly.” 

Lexa’s chest bursts into a fiery explosion at that word. She clears her throat, trying to suppress the high-pitched squeal of excitement that threatens to come out. “Yes, that – that is fortuitous.” 

Clarke kisses the top of her shoulder. “What are you planning after graduation?” 

Lexa licks her lips nervously. “Fullerton Community College, maybe. I was thinking about applying for financial aid there.” 

Clarke makes a soft noise of encouragement, stroking her arm. “What kind of degree?” 

Lexa looks away, inexplicably embarrassed. “Um.” 

Clarke raises her head again, frowning. “Lex. Come on. I’m going to try to be self-sufficient through marking colors onto a piece of cloth. It’s not going to be less practical than that.” 

She looks at her, soft and nonjudgmental and reassuring. “I – I like working with my hands, my body. I was thinking about becoming a physical therapist. Or … or a martial arts instructor.” She flushes, eyes averted. “Something like that,” she mumbles. 

She glances at Clarke and sees a grin breaking across her face. “Lex, that’s a _wonderful_ idea.” 

“Yeah?” she asks doubtfully. 

Clarke nods. “I know you like to project this badass vibe, but I’ve seen you with Aden and Tris and Art – you’re incredibly patient. And when you were teaching me the basics – you were _so_ good at it. You were gentle and understandable and thorough.” Her grin turns more playful. “At least, when you’re not trying to seduce your students.” 

“I don’t think that’ll be an issue,” Lexa murmurs, smiling despite herself. 

Clarke cocks her head questioningly. “What about your graphic novels? You’re so passionate about them.” 

Lexa raises one shoulder. “I still love them. I just … don’t want a career around them, I guess.” She shudders. “And fuck retail. Seriously. Fuck retail up the ass with a coupon.” 

Clarke laughs, raspy peals coming from her chest. Lexa lights up at the sound. 

“I love you,” Lexa says, because she can and she does. 

Clarke’s laughter trails off into a glowing smile. She leans forward and kisses Lexa, gentle and purposeful. “I love you, too, Lex,” she breathes against her lips, and pulls back slightly to look her in the eyes. “You – you’re just this gorgeous, wonderful enigma. I think I’ve loved you since I caught you staring at my painting last year. _God_ , your face. It was just full of this … reverence. This beautiful, unexpected awe.” She smooths back Lexa’s hair. “And I just wanted to know you so badly. I wanted to know what kind of person felt that strongly, but hid it so well.” 

Lexa reddens a little under the intensity of Clarke’s gaze. “Not that well, clearly,” she mumbles. 

“Well enough,” she says, brow furrowing and voice dropping. 

She knows that she’s thinking about the beach and Lexa’s abandonment, and she grasps her hand, putting it between her breasts, on top of her thumping heart. “I’m yours, remember? I’m your open book. Anything you want to know.” 

Clarke quirks an eyebrow, smirk slowly growing. “You’re mine?” Lexa nods. “Prove it, then.” 

Lexa smiles, surging up and flipping them, straddling Clarke and pinning her wrists to the bed. 

“You said something about meeting Commander Lexa?” she asks, grinning down at a disheveled and increasingly excited Clarke. 

The other girl nods eagerly, biting her bottom lip. 

“Let me introduce you.” 

*** 

Lexa feels like she’s floating for the next month. When Clarke sidles up to her at her locker on Monday, slipping fingers through hers with a gentle, tender smile, she strongly suspects her body is levitating. When Clarke kisses her, licking a bit of marinara sauce off her upper lip in the cafeteria to whistles and raucous shouts of encouragement, Lexa thinks she might have actually died. 

When Clarke comes over on Saturday night to have chili and cornbread with her family, and laughs with Aden and her mom over stories about Lexa the fierce, scowling 8 year-old, she smothers her mortification, intertwines their hands and feels her heart try to beat its way out of her chest. 

And when they’re alone a few weeks later, Abby at another late hospital shift, Clarke ties her up and blindfolds her with soft, red sashes, and proceeds to torture her in the most pleasant way possible. Until she’s shaking and begging and shouting obscenities. 

She has dinner with Abby and Clarke the week after, and apart from the occasional inward cringe (oh, god, she’s putting a plate of salmon directly on the counter where she ate her daughter out), Lexa enjoys the opportunity to see her mom in a non-professional capacity, and how Clarke interacts with her. 

Abby is neither cold nor aloof, though a little intense and interrogative, and the clear gleam of assessment in her eyes only disappears when she looks at her daughter, love shining through. Lexa can see the distance Clarke mentioned between them, how they don’t move entirely comfortably around each other in the kitchen, how awkwardness seeps into silences that she knows doesn’t have anything to do with their guest. 

If the tension in their relationship saddens her, Clarke’s clear pride around Lexa makes her feel self-conscious, undeserving, and full of a soaring satisfaction, all at the same time. When Lexa is answering carefully pointed questions from Abby about her life, her future, her family, Clarke watches her with an intent, penetrative gaze, like she wants to absorb everything Lexa is saying and doing. Clarke presses her into the front door with her hips and chest when Abby is upstairs, letting them say goodbye, and kisses her so hard and ardently that she feels dizzy when they part. 

They hear about Quint’s arrest, along with several key members of his crew, that week, too. While Lexa celebrates with Clarke, Art, Anya, and her other friends, the realist in her knows that this won’t change things fundamentally. Drug dealers abhor a vacuum, after all, and she knows Derrick or another piece of shit will come in and snatch up the territory that Quint vacated. But, doesn’t mean she can’t get a violent sense of vindication imagining Quint and Miles and Isaiah locked up until they’re 50. 

When they graduate a few months later, Lexa grabbing Clarke and kissing her soundly as a cloud of caps hit the air, her cynical, bitter little self actually feels optimistic. Clarke and Octavia are both going to UCLA – Clarke obviously with an eye on their art department and Octavia with a small but sizeable soccer scholarship. Raven finds an engineering college a little further up the coast, but still within driving distance to Anaheim (fortunately for her and Anya, who continue to be the world’s sweetest, most paradoxical couple). 

Lexa and Lincoln get full-time jobs and start pursuing two-year degrees at Anaheim’s community colleges. She lives at home until saving up for a few months, and then finds a marginally decent three-bedroom that she shares with Lincoln and Nyko, who’s also staying in the city. 

Anya stays with her mom after graduation, and they continue the long, gradual process of recognizing each other as flawed human beings. Bemoaning the amount of student debt she’ll undoubtedly have after law school, Anya begins her pre-law course. Lexa imagines her as a pantsuit-ed shark after blood in the courtroom, and pities every future attorney she comes across. 

Lexa misses Clarke so intensely those first few weeks after college starts that there’s a hole in her chest, raw and gaping. But when Clarke sets up that first video chat and shows up wearing nothing but garter stockings and a black, lacy bra, she feels a little better. 

She and Lincoln take the bus to visit them three weeks into the semester, and she wraps herself around Clarke like an unapologetic koala, breathing her in like oxygen. They ditch Lincoln and Octavia about five minutes later in order to have loud, unrestrained sex in her dorm room, making Clarke the most infamous person on her floor for at least two weeks. 

She has bad days those first few months apart – they both do. Lexa wakes up and it’s sometimes impossible for her to believe that she’s remotely good enough for Clarke, that the other girl will inevitably meet someone in college who’s prettier and smarter and better for her, and that Lexa will be alone. Again. 

The first time she gets distant and cold, insecurities and fears taking over her higher brain functions, Clarke shows up at her apartment two days later and gets in her face, pushing her with a firm hand until she stumbles backwards. 

“What the fuck, Lexa?” she says loudly. “I swear to god, if you pull this martyr shit again, I will _end_ you.” 

And then she drags Lexa into her bedroom, ignoring Lincoln’s dropped jaw, and Commander Clarke proceeds to communicate exactly how pissed off she is and how much Lexa still belongs to her. 

Lexa doesn’t pull that shit again. 

They talk through it the next time she feels that strange combination of terror and resignation, like Clarke is already slipping out of her grasp. She doesn’t shut down again. 

And sometimes it’s Clarke who needs comfort and Lexa’s solid presence. When her midterms are on her, and she’s frantically trying to study for a Physics class she hates while finishing another ambitious painting, Lexa visits her on the weekend with barbeque from Jake’s favorite restaurant and foot massages. 

When Clarke comes down to Anaheim and sees the women Lexa interacts with on a regular basis, at her new job at the shiny, enormous gym near Fullerton, she resorts to scathing, passive-aggressive barbs. She doesn’t stop until Lexa calls her up and shouts loving endearments and reassurances at her, telling her to quit being a jealous, irrational idiot because Lexa would choose her over any other person in the world. She calms down after that. 

On Thanksgiving break, courtesy of Clarke’s unrelenting encouragement, they _all_ spend the holiday together. Lexa, Aden, and her mom go over to Clarke’s house in the afternoon on Thanksgiving, Octavia, Lincoln, Raven, Anya, and Marian showing up soon after – and they spend the new few hours together. It’s a little stilted at first, until Marian, Abby, and Audrey go outside to sip glasses of wine outside (sparkling water for Marian), and then it becomes a loud, inebriated, nostalgia-fueled celebration. Aden is absolutely ecstatic to be included, even if he is the youngest and essentially a 7th wheel. 

And then, during the next holiday, Clarke comes over to Lexa’s house on Christmas day and they cuddle on the couch, watching _Home Alone 2_. Clarke waits until Aden and Audrey have vacated the room before taking Lexa’s hand and placing it on her surprisingly protuberant crotch, leaning in to whisper in her ear, “I got your present right here, baby.” 

It’s Lexa’s favorite Christmas ever. 

When they’re lying in bed later that night in Lexa’s apartment, Clarke breathing deep and heavy beside her after some seriously exertive activity, Lexa feels a kind of wonder and astonishment at her own life. Because she has this beautiful, intelligent, creative, loving person beside her, entrenched firmly in her life. Because her friends and family are here and safe. Because she has a tentative future now, a potential career and life path that might take her outside Anaheim. 

Because she never thought she could have something like this. And she’s not afraid. 


End file.
